The Search of Greater Value
by onlyonepage
Summary: Mrs Hudson visits her sister over the summer leaving the boys of 221B with house sitter Harriet Thornton. Harriet isn't impressed with the serial killer pursuing consultant detective upstairs. Can they find something of greater value from the situation?
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! After spending my half term binging on Sherlock I just couldn't help myself. I hope to update regulalry but now that I am back to planning lessons and marking work I'm not sure how regularly that will be. I'll try to make up for it with longer chapters though.****Feedback is much appreciated. Enjoy!**

**I don't own Sherlock...**

_'The alchemists in their search for gold discovered many other things of greater value' _Arthur Shopenhauer

**Chapter 1**

_'A great mind becomes a great fortune' _

Seneca the Younger

"John, I consider my mind a great fortune. It is going to waste," Doctor John Watson had just walked through the door of 221B Baker Street carrying several plastic bags laden with shopping up a flight of stairs. His flatmate, wearing a dressing gown over his clothes, was lying on their sofa staring up at the ceiling. Coming home to his flat mate in this mood was never a pleasant experience. He would rather spend an entire day shopping with his mother than walk through the front door.

John's flatmate was an interesting character. He was a genius. There was no other word for it although, if you asked the people they knew and the people they met in the street, there were a whole range of colourful words to describe this enigmatic man. He had his good days usually involving a mad dash across the bustling city of London in pursuit of a violent serial killer. In his flat mates eyes this was considered fun. John on the other hand considered a good book or a trip to the cinema as fun. Today was a bad day. There were no serial killers or mass murders to pursue only normal mundane day to day activities like shopping something John's flatmate claimed as boring. John's flatmate was none other than Sherlock Holmes. In his own words, 'the world's only consultant detective.'

"Why don't I have a case!" Sherlock shot to his feet in frustration. When they first met John would have hoped that Sherlock would be on his way to help with the shopping. This hope soon crashed and burned.

"Have you checked the blog?" John asked despite anticipating the answer.

Sherlock gave John an 'of course I've checked the blog' look. "I need a case. An exciting case. A case with bodies, preferably several,' Sherlock had taken to pacing. John ignored him and put away the shopping. John hated to agree with Sherlock but he would also like a case. It had been two weeks and four days, not that he had been counting, and Sherlock was becoming unbearable. After the first two days John swore never to play cluedo with the consultant detective ever again.

John finished unpacking everything apart from the fridge food. He had deliberately put that off out of fear for what lay inside the fridge. Last week it had been a hand. He opened the fridge. A head. Naturally.

"Bored!"

A knock on the door caused the inhabitants of 221 B to exchange a look. John really hoped this was a case. Mrs Hudson, their landlady, bustled into the room. "Oh Sherlock, you really ought to think about tidying this place up a bit"

"I quite agree Mrs Hudson," John answered with a meaningful look at Sherlock who ignored it like he did most things.

"Urrrgh John I want a case. Find me a case," Sherlock knocked a stack of papers that John had sorted the night before onto the floor causing Mrs Hudson to jump.

"Sherlock, you shouldn't do that. They look important," Mrs Hudson picked them in an attempt to tidy up a bit. John muttered to himself.

"I only wanted to inform you I am going away," she explained whilst clearing away a plate of slightly mouldy toast.

This caught Sherlock's attention, "away?"

"Yes. My sister has invited me to say," she exaggerated.

"Your sister," Sherlock repeated with a slight frown.

"In Brighton. To enjoy the summer," Mrs Hudson

"That's great. Did you hear that John. No case and Mrs Hudson is leaving us," Sherlock flopped onto the couch and rolled onto his side curling up so he was facing the cushions.

"I am in the same room of course I heard," John ignored his friend's dramatics, "have a nice time Mrs Hudson. We will look after the place."

"Oh you needn't worry about that. I know you are busy," Sherlock muttered something into the cushions as she reassured them, "I have invited someone to house sit."

For the second time that hour Sherlock shot to his feet and headed straight for Mrs Hudson, "who?" Sherlock and John had always considered Mrs Hudson as the single most important thing in 221 Baker Street. Sherlock was a man of habits. Mrs Hudson leaving defied this completely. Even if it was only for a few weeks.

He observed her every detail, "A relation. Someone you don't know very well. A cousin. Twice removed. Female. Young. You feel sorry for her."

"We need to find you a case," John sighed at his friend's obvious showing off although as always he was still amazed. How did Sherlock figure that out this time?

Mrs Hudson momentarily lost her words, he really was remarkable, "yes that's right."

"Don't worry we will look after her," John reassured, "what's her name?"

"Harriet," Mrs Hudson answered.

"Don't get your hopes up John," Sherlock said once Mrs Hudson had closed the door behind her. "Sympathy. Mrs Hudson has invited her to get away from something. Or rather someone. A man. Why would she get involved with another?"

Two say later Mrs Hudson got into a black cab outside 221 Baker Street. Its inhabitants were stood at the cabs door. "Have a nice trip, don't eat too much ice cream," John said as he passed her the handbag she always carried with her.

"Good bye Mrs Hudson. I hope your trip is adequate," it was the best they were going to get from Sherlock. John had the misfortune of putting up with his sulks and moods. They still had no case and Mrs Hudson leaving only served to make Sherlock's mood worse. John had been very insistent that Sherlock be nice to Mrs Hudson who was, as he pointed out, perfectly entitled to a holiday away from them or more specifically Sherlock.

"Harriet will arrive late tonight," Mrs Hudson fussed.

"We promise to look after her," John reassured the worrying landlady.

With the taxi having turned from the road Sherlock turned back into the house mumbling something about not needing to babysit an emotional woman. John once again ignored him and hoped that Harriet would be a suitable distraction if only for a few minutes otherwise John was very tempted to go out and commit a series of murders to get rid of the foul mood that Sherlock was in. The longer time passed the more is seemed to be a sensible option until the prospect of jail surfaced in his thoughts. He followed Sherlock inside with great reluctance and more than welcomed the arrival of their temporary guest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_'An inner process stands in need of outward criteria'_  
>Ludwig Wittgenstein<p>

It was late when Harriet stepped off the platform in Kings Cross Station. Tired and weary from her long journey and demanding day. She lugged her heavy bag to the underground station where, after glancing at the instruction that Mrs Hudson had given her, she was to get to Baker Street. Even late at night the tube was hive of activity except now it was full of students and party-goers instead of the sharply dressed office workers.

Harriet had never been to Baker Street in fact she had only ever met Mrs Hudson twice in her life. Once at a relative that wasn't a relatives fiftieth birthday and the other was her grandmother's funeral, neither occasion being enjoyable to Harriet.

Three weeks ago, after her split with her fiancé, Harriet's mother had fussed on and on insisting that Harriet couldn't cope. She had been right. Harriet was perfectly fine with the breakup the fussy mother on the other hand was something entirely different. That's why when she had suggested a break away from life Harriet had insisted. If she spent any longer watching the ever thought provoking loose women or intellectually stimulating Jeremy Kyle she would purposely throw herself in front of a train. Every time the opening music struck a chord she could feel brain cells deserting her in disgust.

Shaking the vomit inducing thoughts of day time TV from her mind Harriet concentrated on the overly complicated-but-simple-to-every-one-else underground map. She could ask someone but in her post break-up power to women frame of mind she would not lower herself to ask the security guard for advice. No, she would figure this one out herself. How hard could it be?

An hour and a half later Harriet pushed the key Mrs Hudson had posted into the key hole of the sleek black door to 221 Baker Street. She was fed up, exhausted and in desperate need of a glass wine. A cold pinot grigio would be magnificent in Harriet's eyes. Her journey should have taken fifteen minutes but Harriet missed the stop and had to walk back the rest of the way. The dark empty streets had unnerved her leaving her in desperate need of comfort and somewhere warm and dry. Despite the summer season it had poured it down all day.

Harriet dropped her bag on the floor with a heavy thud and took in her surroundings. The hallway was dark with a worn wooden staircase leading upstairs to where, Mrs Hudson had informed her in a letter, her current tenants lived. For the live of her Harriet could not remember their names. It wasn't important.

Mrs Hudson wasn't lying when she had said the place would be clean. The hallway was immaculate or at least in the dull light emanating from the end of the hall it looked that way. It certainly lived up to Harriet's mother's level of clean. 'Good,' Harriet thought, her mother was expecting a full report when she returned.

Having rested her aching arms momentarily Harriet took up her weighty bag and entered her home for the next few weeks. Mrs Hudson's flat matched her personality completely or rather the impression Harriet had pieced together from her telephone conversation and letter. The place was as clean if not cleaner than the hall had been with ornaments littering most surfaces. There had been an attempt to modernise the interior but it still had items that hadn't been popular since the seventies. The floral sofa looked older than Harriet's mother but oh boy did it look inviting so inviting that Harriet dramatically dropped onto it relieving the pressure in her achy feet.

A knock on the door interrupted Harriet's peaceful rest, she lifted her head up to listen again not sure if it was the door but there it was again. A short sharp knocking. Who would bother anyone at this time of night? Harriet panicked. Had she closed the front door behind her? She thought so but could be wrong. As her mind worked over many scenarios from crazy drug addicted burglars to innocent members of the public informing her that she hadn't closed the door behind her she remembered the residents of 221B. Forgotten key, that had to be it. Having reassured her mind she hauled herself to her feet ignoring her protesting muscles and answered the door.

"Harriet Thornton, I presume," the tall dark stranger at the door brushed past Harriet and into the flat. Her limited patience and exhaustion immediately put the stranger into the rude people category. She made no secret of her annoyance and settled for muttering 'come in why don't you,' under her breath. The stranger's eyes flicked to the irritated young woman still holding onto the door.

"Sherlock!" the sound of hurried footsteps thundered down the creaky wooden stairs in the hall. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, the inhabitants of 221B, had both heard the distinct sound of a key in a lock from their upstairs flat. It had immediately cured Sherlock's boredom. Mrs Hudson's temporary replacement. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock. Within minutes he had had abandoned his dressing gown and swung the door open. His destination; Mrs Hudson's flat. John found himself in pursuit desperate to protect their new downstairs neighbour from the brutal honesty of first meetings with Sherlock. The poor girl would be tired, the last thing anyone needed tired or not was an audience with Sherlock.

"Sorry about him," John held his hand out to their temporary Mrs Hudson, "John Watson."

Harriet took the hand and shook it, she instantly warmed to John. At least he had the decency to apologise. "Don't do it," John gave the tall dark stranger a warning look. Harriet was confused.

"Do what?" she asked.

"You-" John's reply was cut off.

"Harriet Thornton. Twenty five years old. Staying here for the next three weeks. You don't want to be here but lesser of two evils. Bags under eyes and slouching, long day. Hard work. Leaning on one foot ergo you spend most of the day on your feet," Harriet stood up straighter and put both feet firmly on the ground, she could do nothing about the bags under eyes though. This man was unbelievable. "Black ink on index finger and thumb, where you hold a pen lid. Not a small pen. A whiteboard marker. Teacher. History. Recent tragic event. Breakup. Fiancé. Mutual but still emotionally traumatic."

"You couldn't have held off till morning?" John muttered knowing full well that Sherlock would not have waited.

Harriet was speechless. What in the name of all things holy was that? "I, I," she struggled for an answer.

"Impressive," the tall dark stranger that Harriet had realised was Sherlock offered. He was clearly a show off.

Having collected herself Harriet could form perfect full English sentences, "I was going to say that was weird. How did you know I recently broke up with someone?"

"I mentioned your posture, you immediately corrected it. Determination to prove yourself," he stared back at Harriet daring her to contradict him, "the fact that it was the first you commented on only reaffirms what I said."

John could predict what would happen next with ease. Having analysed Harriet Sherlock was once again bored. She was perfectly ordinary and therefore of no importance. His curiosity had been satisfied leaving Sherlock with no case only boredom.

"You look exhausted. Get some rest. It was nice to meet you," John could tell that the pair's intrusion had been unwelcome.

"Nice to meet you too," Harriet was still stood near the open door having not moved.

"Sherlock?" John had already stepped outside. Sherlock swept from the room without even a goodbye. Harriet closed and locked the door. She leant against the cold wood with no idea what to think of Mrs Hudson's tenant.

As she lay in bed Harriet realised that it wasn't the accurate analysis of her life that interested her but the eyes. His eyes were icy. She shivered as she recalled them staring straight into her leaving her with a feeling of weakness. Stripping every barrier and wall she had built around herself. Harriet tried to figure out the eccentric enigma that was Sherlock but fell short. He had come across as arrogant and rude. To Harriet it seemed as if he enjoyed ripping the private information from her grasp. She narrowed her thoughts to Sherlock is nothing more than a complete arse. Mrs Hudson's letter had read as if she was fond of the inhabitants. She must have meant John. If as Mrs Hudson suggested, he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy towards women it must be reserved for her and clearly didn't extend to anyone else.

His flatmate or was it partner, she had been afraid to ask, seemed nice. He made up for what his friend was lacking. At least he apologised for their intrusion. Harriet was too tired to give the tenants of 221B anymore thought, her long day having caught up with her.

In the early hours of the morning a loud bang jerked Harriet from her peaceful slumber. Paranoia of the strange room seeped into her thoughts. She pulled the covers over her head and hoped it was something outside. Another bang shattered the silence. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs. Was it the tenant of 221B? Her now rational mind was annoyed. She had no doubt in her mind that it was Sherlock that was making the noise; John hadn't struck her as the type. It was easy to piece together. Sherlock had been the one to barge into her temporary home without an invite. He would surely be the type to make a lot of noise at; Harriet glanced at her phone, three thirty in the morning. If she wasn't slightly nervous of the man she had a good mind to storm up the stairs and give him what for. He was definitely an arse.

Harriet lay wide awake in bed wondering how she would describe this to her mother when she phoned in the morning. It might be better for her to lie and say she hadn't met them yet. Yes, she would with that. Her mother would only worry about her and more than likely come to an unwanted rescue. Spending three weeks alone in London was something Harriet was determined to prove. She didn't need anyone.

There were several other loud bangs before 221B Baker Street fell silent again.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading. In the first chapter I said I was a teacher which has had very little influence over my OC. I only thought it would be a good profession to enable the character to deal with everyone's favorite consultant detective. If anyone has any thoughts I'd love to hear them. <strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_'The act of dying is one of the acts of life' _  
>Marcus Aurelius<p>

Harriet awoke feeling refreshed despite the interruption to her sleep. Mrs Hudson had left a pint of milk in the fridge and Harriet found some bran flakes in one of the kitchen cupboards. She didn't like milk and the thought of dry bran flakes was not a desirable one instead she headed to a cafe a few streets over from Baker Street overlooking Regents Park with a chocolate croissant and espresso. The day was looking set to be much improved on the day before. For one, not a cloud in the sky could be seen. Perfect weather for Harriet to sit in Regents Park with her book enjoying the sun.

Harriet returned mid-afternoon with a bag of shopping. She really couldn't eat bran flakes for the rest of her stay. As she fumbled with the key to the front door of 221 Baker Street it swung open in front of her revealing John Watson. "Oh hello, heading out?" she caused John to jump in surprise.

"Err yes. We're out of milk, just popping to the shop," He replied.

"I've got some you can have," Harriet stepped through the open door.

"Don't worry I'll go out, won't take me long," he reassured her.

"No. I insist. I don't like milk. Mrs Hudson left it for me," John followed Harriet to Mrs Hudson's flat. He took the milk that she passed him and thanked her. He went to leave but stopped.

"Harriet. I don't suppose you are busy tonight? We could catch a film," Harriet was surprised more than anything. What could she say? Her plan for the evening had been to finish her book, she had just gotten to the bit where the killer made a mistake but that sounded like a pathetic excuse. She was sure that if she said no then John would take his partner.

"She thinks you and I are in a relationship," Sherlock had announced his presence as he again entered Mrs Hudson's flat without being invited. Harriet was mortified and stumbled with an apology having been proved wrong. Neither man heard it. Anyone could be forgiven for thinking they were a couple, right now they were bickering just like one. John was trying to explain the situation and Sherlock was nosing in the fridge. "Mrs Hudson said you weren't to date Miss Thornton," he interrupted the pair. Harriet's cheeks turned a rose colour. She had no intention of dating anyone for a while; it was the insinuation that embarrassed her. Did he think she was really that free and easy?

"She also said you weren't to put anymore holes into her walls," John replied.

"I was bored."

"Really, I never would have guessed. Read a book. Do an experiment," John suggested. Harriet lost interest and started to put her shopping away.

"Why when I know how it would end? I'm still awaiting results for my current experiment," Sherlock answered back.

"Is that what the congealed blob is that's taking up most of the fridge?" anyone could see from the look on John's face that he'd had a nasty surprise the last time he opened the fridge.

"We need a case," Sherlock stood behind Harriet watching her put the shopping away. It was more than a little intimidating.

"Mutilated bodies? Kidnap. How about theft of a really expensive yet hideous piece of art?" John mocked.

"Serial killer," Sherlock added to the list.

What were they going on about anyway? Bodies, serial killer. None of it made an ounce of sense to Harriet. "What are you talking about?" she asked. It seemed as if they had forgotten they were in Mrs Hudson's flat.

"Murder Miss Thornton. Do keep up," Sherlock said in a tone that implied she was stupid.

"Murder?" she repeated.

Sherlock sighed, "That's what I said. John your blog counter is stuck again." Still none of it made any sense to Harriet.

"You were on my laptop?" John accused.

"I confisc-" Sherlock replied.

"Just hold on one second. What do you mean by murder?" Harriet cut Sherlock off.

"I don't like being interrupted," he stared down at Harriet.

"Yeah well I don't like people coming in without an invite," she glared back at him.

"Sherlock is a consultant detective," John provided an explanation as a way of dissolving the tension. Harriet found 'Sherlock is an arse,' to be a better description of the man.

"The world's _only_ consultant detective," Harriet added show off to her list of reasons not to like him. She was getting fed up. Most of the kids she taught were easier to deal with than this man. "Right. Enough. Out. Both of you," she pointed to the door with one hand on her hip.

"Sorry Harriet thanks for the milk," John made a quick exit expecting Sherlock to follow. They had been unfair to her. Sherlock stared directly at Harriet. He really didn't like being told what to do; he never listened when it happened.

Harriet was determined to win the staring contest she and Sherlock were having. She was used to kids knowing that she meant business. Sherlock didn't seem to be taking the hint or if he did he was ignoring it.

"221B is getting dusty," he said before finally leaving. Harriet shut the door with force. She didn't care if their flat was dusty. It wasn't her problem. The man infuriated her and it had taken less than twenty four hours. John she didn't mind but Sherlock was a different story.

Frustrated at the intrusion she poured herself a large glass of wine, heated up a microwave lasagne and sat down at Mrs Hudson's tiny kitchen table with her book propped up against the ketchup bottle.

After clearing away she sat down in front of Mrs Hudson's old TV and caught the news. '_Was a biologist at City University and lived in the Temple area, she was found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge in the early hours of this morning. It is thought to have been suicide, second one of its kind' _Harriet caught the end of a local report. The only good news was the sun would continue to shine tomorrow meaning Harriet could make the most of site seeing. On her list for tomorrow were, Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park.

The following day was a quiet one. Harriet heard nothing from 221B Baker Street. No strange bangs at ridiculous hours in the morning and no uninvited visitors. It was brilliant. Harriet had seen Bucking Palace, Hyde Park and today had been to Madam Tussaud's. Tomorrow she was going to have a quiet day with another trip to the park. Her bank balance couldn't take anymore sightseeing for a few days.

John Watson was relieved to find that Sherlock had found something to clear his boredom. For the past four days a string of suicides had occurred. Initially Sherlock Holmes had thought nothing of it but now he was rethinking his initial conclusion. Lestrade had sent him a text. They suspected it was more than suicide. It was exactly what Sherlock had been waiting for. A case. His boredom was cured.

Harriet was hovering Mrs Hudson's flat when she saw a sleek silver car pull up outside. Her curiosity got the better of her so she took the hoover over to the window and hovered so she could nose. Hurried footsteps on the stairs proved that the car was for Sherlock and John. They met a man with grey hair at the car and got in. 'Consultant detective business' Harriet thought and decided she didn't need to know anymore.

As the car pulled away Sherlock looked at the window of 221 Baker Street where he had seen Harriet. She was disguising her nosiness with hovering. Mrs Hudson usually did their flat as well. He knew Harriet wouldn't do it but he would change that. John was being equally as stubborn in cleaning as if to prove a point but when they were running out of clean cups something had to be done.

Sherlock looked down at the lifeless body in the morgue. Molly Hooper had done the autopsy. She was fumbling through an explanation of her findings. Sherlock could have read the report quicker but he had to keep her on side if he was to keep getting body parts for his experiments. Speaking of which Molly should have another batch of fingers for him to take away. He got out his slide-open magnifying glass to take a look at the marks around the victims neck. This many similar suicides in four days was not suicide but murder. "The morgue has never been so full," Molly commented.

Sherlock snapped his magnifying glass shut, "Molly don't make small talk," so much for keeping her on side. He would still get his fingers though. Molly Hooper's attraction to him was to his advantage.

"I need to see the rope," Sherlock left the room without any goodbyes, John and Lestrade followed behind after a hurried goodbye to Molly. Sherlock's thoughts were confirmed when he arrived at New Scotland Yard. It was definitely murder. The rope he had looked at hadn't been long enough for the victim to fasten it around their necks and climb over the side of the bridge. They were already dead when they were dropped off the edge of the bridge but how? Nothing had shown up in the toxicology report Molly had done.

Sherlock and John had a silent journey back to Baker Street. One was deep in thought the other was respecting the need for silence having learnt on several occasions that for him to talk would only make matters worse.

Sherlock went over the details he knew so far. The first victim had been twenty five years old Gabriella LaRoche an accountant in Chelsea found hanging from Albert Bridge. Second victim Amrit Singh, again twenty five, a biologist found hanging from the Blackfriars Bridge. Third victim Sally Wilson, twenty five again, a conveyancer found hanging from the Charing Cross Bridge. Sherlock and John had today seen the body of victim number four. Amelia Fergus a twenty five year old chemist hanging from Chelsea Bridge yesterday. There were no drugs found and no obvious signs of injury in the autopsy. No identifiable DNA had been recovered.

The Albert Accountant, the Blackfriars Biologist, the Charing Cross Conveyancer and now the Chelsea Chemist. This definitely head Sherlock's attention.

Lucy brown was a geologist with the British Geological Survey and was currently staying in London at a conference. After dinner with an old university friend she was walking back to her hotel. She had left her purse on a bench whilst having lunch. Lucy was prone to forgetting things. Lucy turned down Exchange Street in Romford; it was a shortcut back to her hotel. Without her purse she couldn't afford a taxi. It was already late and the street was deserted. Lucy felt an unease sweep across her and shivered. She picked up her pace as she passed by the railway arches. As she walked past the third arch someone stepped out beside her. Before she had time to react a hand clamped down over her mouth.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for taking the time to read. <strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**_'The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend'_**  
><strong>Henri Bergson<strong>

"John this is brilliant!" Sherlock was pacing the living room, "we have a serial killer. An actual serial killer!" he leapt onto the arm chair with his knees dawn up and hands pressed together.

"Try not to enjoy this too much," John looked up from the newspaper.

Sherlock ignored him, "the accountant, biologist, conveyancer, chemist and now geologist. Albert, Blackfriars, Charing cross, Chelsea and Grosvenor." This was text book. The killer craved attention and that was exactly what he was getting. The newspapers loved it and so was Sherlock.

"They are all bridges," John stated trying to also puzzle it out, "what has that got to do with anything?"

"Shh I'm thinking," he continued to mutter to himself. John turned back to his paper. Moments later Sherlock sprung to his feet once again and opened the door.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"I'm going downstairs," he swept the door open.

"Now just hang on a minute. Harriet isn't your biggest fan," John put the paper aside.

"Neither are most people," his lips twitched into a smile, "Won't be long." Sherlock disappeared out of the door which slammed shut behind him. John was tempted to follow to save Harriet from Sherlock but decided it would do Sherlock some good to be put in his place.

Sherlock knocked on the door. He knew where Mrs Hudson's spare key was but he needed Harriet's cooperation. Placing his hands into his pockets he waited for her to answer.

Harriet was strange. He could read her like a book, as he did with everyone, but it was different this time. She was judging him equally although not to his standards, she clearly had no skills in the department of deducing but she had his number so to speak. She wasn't judging him on intelligence, she didn't consider that important. Harriet was judging on his behaviour. Definitely a teacher.

As Harriet walked to the door she hoped it wasn't Sherlock. Her day had been going so well up until this point. Swinging the door open her worse fears were confirmed. The consultant detective and house sitting teacher regarded each other for a moment. Harriet was waiting for him to invite himself in so that she could tell him off. Sherlock had anticipated this and was remaining at the door. "What can I do for you?" she shifted slightly and folded her arms.

"Miss Thornton, can I not check up on Mrs Hudson's house sitter?" Sherlock placed his hands in his trouser pockets.

"No," she replied.

"May I come in?" Sherlock asked with a voice like velvet that made Harriet weak at the knees.

"No," she repeated standing her ground.

Sherlock ignored this and ploughed on with the conversation, "As I said the other day 221B is getting dusty."

"You insufferable arse," Harriet clamped a hand over mouth. She hadn't meant to say that aloud. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the young woman.

"No wonder society complains about young people if this is how the teachers behave," he commented. Sherlock would never admit it but he said it deliberately to rile her up. It was for his amusement. Not that he would share this neither would he share the main reason for his visit.

Harriet huffed, "I was going to apologise but now I'm not."

"I don't need an apology. I need a clean flat."

"Well you're barking up the wrong tree," with that Harriet shut the door in his face.

Harriet heard footsteps and the closing of a door and decide it was wise to go out before he tried again. Was he honestly expecting her to clean? If Mrs Hudson did it she didn't know, one thing was certain and that was she sure as hell wasn't going to.

A whole twenty four hours passed without any of sign of the upstairs neighbours. Hopefully they'd also gone away leaving her alone for the rest of her three week stay. Harriet walked dup to 221 Baker Street as John stepped out of a taxi. Apparently they were still there. She had been out shopping for the morning and was retuning laden with bags. "Hi," she greeted.

"Hello. Good day?"

"Yeah very good day," she smiled and held up her purchases. Shopping and not a single sighting of the annoying arse from upstairs.

"Listen I'm sorry about Sherlock yesterday," John apologised for his friend who they both knew was never going to apologise. When Sherlock had returned he had explained it all to John. His reasoning for visiting Harriet. Sure the flat was a mess but Sherlock Holmes had n ulterior motive.

Harriet waved it off, "don't worry about it. I told him he was an insufferable arse."

"That's quite mild," John commented and Harriet laughed.

"As _he_ so eloquently put it, 'No wonder society complains about young people if this is how the teachers behave,' he should be glad that's all I said and he has another coming if he thinks I'm going to clean his bloody flat," Harriet ranted to John. She had forgotten that John also lived there.

"He said that. Wait, of course he said that, I'm sorry Harriet," John should know better by now when all things Sherlock were concerned.

"You do a lot of apologising on his behalf," Harriet observed.

John chuckled, she didn't know the half of it, "listen, you can come upstairs for a coffee if you want." Harriet considered it for a minute. She was curious about the flat upstairs after hearing noises the first night and knowing who its two inhabitants were.

"Alright. You're on. I'll drop my bags so put the kettle on," there she was being nosy again. True to her word she dropped her bags and went upstairs. John had left the door open for her so she walked in and immediately caught side of her all-time favourite person. He didn't spare her a greeting but neither did she.

"Tea or coffee?" John called.

"Coffee, black, two sugars," the consultant detective called back before Harriet could answer, "Harriet will have hers black with one sugar. Correct me if I'm wrong." He directed the last bit at Harriet.

"No you're right," she sat down in one of the chairs and waited for John to bring her coffee through. It gave her the perfect chance to take in her surroundings or at least what she could see under piles of paper and faded newspaper. On the top of the stack of newspapers was todays 'The Lambeth Lawyer' was sprawled across the front page. It was the killer's latest victim.

"Mrs Hudson cleans," Sherlock drawled drawing Harriet's attention away from the newspaper.

Harriet narrowed her eyes at the man lying on the sofa in a dressing gown which had it been anyone else would have struck her as odd, "I'm not Mrs Hudson."

"Yes," he spared her a glance, "that much is certain." She didn't know whether to be offended or not.

John bought in the coffees and asked Harriet about her shopping trip. Sherlock with his hands steepled against his chin was staring straight up at the ceiling occasionally making a comment. "You are clearly worried about your bank balance after your expensive shopping. Perhaps your time would have been better spent doing your job as house sitter and cleaned the flat."

Harriet clutched onto her mug tightly, he knuckles turning white. She wanted to smash the mug in his handsome face. _Handsome?_ She mentally gagged at the thought. He'd just insulted her and she was thinking that. Deciding to be the bigger person Harriet deliberately ignored the comment and asked John about the best place to take a walk along the Thames.

"Do you think that's wise going for a walk along the Thames alone when so many women have been found murdered on the bridges?" Sherlock interrupted.

"I'll go in the day. It'll be fine, I have a phone," she set her mug down removing the temptation to launch it at a particular someone.

"He's right. Maybe you should hold off for a few days and do something else. Just until the police catch the killer," John couldn't believe he was agreeing with Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffed when he mentioned the police catching the killer. Harriet picked up on this, "and I suppose you're going to be the one to catch him."

"Or her if you are into that feminist stuff but no you are right in your assumption that it is a him," for someone who was giving off the impression he was deep in thought he was saying a fair amount for himself.

"Enlighten me," she challenged.

A smile slowly crept onto Sherlock's face as he sat up, "oh I will." John nearly choked on his drink, was Sherlock flirting? No. That was impossible.

"Sherlock," John warned. His warning was disregarded.

"Victims are women. All of them. Knot on the rope. No woman can tie a not that tight. Rope was separated by a knife. Hacked. And how do you know that was a man? Because a woman would be precise and use scissors. Bruising on the skin. Thumb prints. Too big to be a woman's. Choice of crime scene. Bridges. What woman obsesses over bridges? None. Women are calculated. Crime scene would mean something to the victim. Bridges, just a man thinking he is smart," he barely took a breath as he reeled off his reasons.

"Show off," she said despite being impressed. No matter how hard she tried to hide it she knew that he knew this.

Harriet hadn't seen hide or hair of Sherlock and John for two days, oh but she had heard them, heard them at ungodly hours of the morning. Well perhaps not them more like him.

For the second night in a row Harriet had been woken up by a clattering above her. To say she was annoyed was putting it politely. "That sodding arse," she grumbled as she threw back the covers. Whether he was solving a crime or not there was a time and a place.

Sherlock looked at the angry woman stood at the door wearing pyjamas with small cartoon owls printed on them. She was bare foot and had clearly hastily put on her cardigan he doubted whether she was aware it was on inside out. "Good evening Miss Thornton to what do I owe the pleasure?" Sherlock knew it was going on three in the morning and he had woken her. He wasn't going to apologise. It had all been to assist the solving of his case.

"You have some nerve. For the past two nights you and your," she looked around the consultant detective and gestured, "whatever it is you're doing has woken me up and it needs to stop. I'm house sitting so what I say goes." Sherlock remained silent. "And oh my god is that a gun?"

"Yes," he replied.

Harriet blinked at the man. Where had she come to stay? "Why do you need a gun?"

Sherlock sighed, was she really that stupid?

"Does Mrs Hudson know you have a gun?" Harriet placed her hands on her hips and scowled. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the smiley face on the wall, Harriet squinted at the bright lights. "And she's okay with that? Well I'm not." Harriet was on a role.

"John is sleeping. You should keep it down," he told her. He couldn't help himself when it came to winding Harriet up. Sherlock couldn't explain why but he found her tirades endearing.

"John is sleeping? Oh and I suppose I wasn't and actually you know what?" her voice rose several octaves, "you should be too." Harriet spun around and headed for the stairs knowing she wasn't going to get anywhere with him.

"I don't sleep. Not on a case," she paused at the sound of his voice. It wasn't full of confidence but was still laced with a serious note. She considered cutting him some slack. He was trying to do a good thing after all.

"Sorry. I know you're only trying to do what's right and catch a killer," she apologised begrudgingly.

"I'm not doing it because it's right. I'm doing it because it's fun," Sherlock wasn't sure why he had said that. Sure it was true but when speaking it aloud to Harriet it felt wrong. He knew she valued morals and doing it purely for fun was not right in her eyes.

"Good night Sherlock," she didn't bother to answer back. Sherlock stood at the door in silence and watched her retreating form descend down the darkened stairs. He didn't feel his usual amount of satisfaction at declaring that. She had been disappointed with him. He closed the door with a loud thud. The killer had struck again a linguist was found hanging from London Bridge and a quantum physicist had been discovered dangling from the Queen Elizabeth the second bridge it left him with a lot of thinking to do.

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><p><strong>Chapter 4, enjoy. Been trying to get this chapter finished all week but real life was calling, very inconsiderate of it. <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**__Chapter 5**

**_'A great many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their prejudices'_**  
><strong>William James<strong>

A week. Harriet had been in London a week. Her mother had phoned and begged her to come home after the daily reporting of murders on the news. Harriet ignored her. She would stay, there were seven million people in London, not all of them were going to be good and besides she always made sure that she was back by nightfall which thankful to summer was usually nine thirty. Harriet was enjoying herself in the city. She drank coffee in sophisticated coffee shops and indulged in the latest fashions. Well, she window shopped. Harriet couldn't quite bring herself to invest in a Marc Jacobs dress. It took a lot of self-control to walk past the shop window and into the high-street chains.

John and Sherlock were in the lab at Bart's. "Molly are those new shoes?" Sherlock asked.

Molly looked down at her feet, they had been new a few months ago, "t-they were a while ago."

"They look nice," he commented. John rolled his eyes at the detectives back. Poor Molly was infatuated with Sherlock. Sherlock just wanted to use the lab and maybe get a coffee out of the trip.

"So why are we here?" John asked once Molly had left to make them coffee. Sherlock pulled out a sheet of paper with a barely legible scrawl and waved it at John. "A bit of paper," John was trying to understand.

"Not just a bit of paper John. This was left at the Queen Elizabeth Second Bridge," Sherlock sat down at the microscope.

"You swiped that from the crime scene!" John knew that by now he shouldn't be surprised. "What does it say?"

"The following number is the only one of its kind. 8,549,176,320. Can you figure out what is so special about it?" Sherlock has handed the paper to John who read aloud, "any idea what that means?"

"No," Sherlock lied. He knew but it wasn't important. Technically it wasn't a lie. The riddle meant nothing; it was the paper that gave the game away.

"Is it a code? Could be a password or phone number," John handed the paper back.

"Shhhh," Sherlock grabbed the paper. John took the hint and went to find Molly to give her a hand all the time wondering what the answer to the riddle was and what Sherlock meant by the paper.

The paper itself was nothing special; it had been torn from a pad. No lines, Sherlock observed. He'd seen this particular paper before but couldn't place where. Sherlock spent hours staring at the paper through a microscope, on a post-it on the surface he had written several words that he could make out from the indentations. Whoever used the pad matching the paper was an avid doodler. He had been that engrossed in the sheet of paper with a tear down one side that he ignored the persistent vibration of his phone in his jacket pocket.

"Find anything?" John asked as he returned to the lab some time later. He had grabbed dinner with Molly. It was getting very late. Sherlock has been in the lab most of the evening.

"This paper. I've seen it before but where?" Sherlock was muttering.

"Oh I've seen it as well," Sherlock's head snapped up to look at the pathologist.

"Where? Think Molly," he was on his feet in seconds and now held Molly by the shoulders at arm's length.

"I-it's, I-I've got some like it," she stuttered. Being this close to Sherlock was too much for her.

"Could you fetch it for us please," John interrupted out of sympathy for Molly. She nodded and disappeared from the room. "What are you thinking?" he asked the pacing consulting detective.

"That paper has been used elsewhere. I've seen it. Indentations on the paper. The user is an employee. Doesn't like their job but it's better than the alternative. Spends far too much time doodling. Male. Poor marks in school. Left handed. Not many of those. How do you know that Sherlock? Heavy hand has weighed the paper down on the left. Brilliant. I know. Tea stain. His job isn't challenging. Lazy. Didn't clean the spill up. Lazy enough to choose something he uses everyday as the scene of the murders. Bridges. Crosses the Albert Bridge on his way home. I've seen the paper before. John I have seen the killer!" Sherlock spun around and smiled at the Doctor unable to contain his excitement.

"That paper is from New Scotland Yard, Lestrade left it with the notes for the first victim," Molly had walked in and handed the paper to Sherlock who turned it over in his hand. Sniffing it.

"Lestrade is our killer?" John didn't believe his own words.

"No," Sherlock said with the unspoken inference that John was an idiot, "Our killer works for the Metropolitan Police."

Sherlock took out his phone and dialled, "Lestrade," a pause, "yes I'm aware of the time thank you. Your killer works for the Metropolitan Police," he hung up as soon as this was said and walked to the double doors.

"Where are we going?" John called as he quickly crossed the room to keep up.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock stated from halfway down the corridor.

"Thank you Molly!" John called back and jogged the rest of the distance till he fell into step with Sherlock.

Once inside a taxi Sherlock opened the messages that had arrived earlier on the phone. He knew who they would be from.

_Brother Dear, you didn't tell me you had a new house keeper. M_

Mycroft, Sherlock didn't reply and put his phone away. He was surprised it had taken his brother this long to get involved, he must be rather busy. It would only be a matter of time before he showed himself in person.

"The police will want to put it through electrostatic detection testing but it won't tell them anymore than I can," Sherlock said once they had returned to Baker Street after their trip to New Scotland Yard. Sherlock was still talking about the note that they had dropped at Lestrade's office. For now he was the only one they were trusting within the Metropolitan Police. Anderson had passed a snide remark as Sherlock left. Sherlock would have liked to have accused Anderson just to get rid of him once and for all but he knew already that it wasn't Anderson.

Sherlock paced the room trying to calculate his next move. He saw a black car pull up outside and a familiar gentleman step out. After receiving the text from his brother Sherlock discerned that he would show up sooner or later. He just couldn't keep his nose out of Sherlock's business.

John left Sherlock to his pacing and fetched his laptop from his hiding place in his room where Sherlock couldn't find it. He returned to the living room and switched it on. "I'm going to see if I can find out some more about the bridges, the next one should be Southbank," he explained. It was the only thing he could come up with that was useful. "Sherlock! You changed my password."

"You didn't hide it very well. Bottom of your underwear draw, really John," Sherlock leaned over the doctor and typed in the new password. His fingers flew across the keys with precision too quick for John to work out his new password.

"You went in my underwear draw!" John's angry words fell on deaf ears. Sherlock has returned to pacing. He shook his head and logged onto the internet. Southwark Bridge should be the next crime scene. Lestrade had police patrolling all the bridges across the Thames, those that had been crime scenes and those that so far hadn't but what difference it made especially now they found out the killer worked for the police. John concentrated on a website devoted entirely to the Southwark Bridge. He was amazed at how much information was on there.

A piercing scream cut through the air of 221 Baker Street. John couldn't get the laptop off his lap quick enough. It had only lasted a few seconds but was enough to instil dread in John Watson. Its high pitch sent shivers down his spine. He took the stairs two at a time and nearly landed face first on the cold tile floor. "Sherlock!" he yelled for his friend.

John fumbled with the door handle and was about to shoulder it open when Sherlock produced the spare key. He had no rush about him after following John down the stairs at his own pace. John jammed the key into the lock and thrust the door open stepping into Mrs Hudson's kitchen. There stood in the middle of the room was Harriet, a gloved hand over her mouth and eyes wide. A smashed glass littered the floor. Behind her was a familiar figure to the boys of 221B.

"I'm surprised it took you this long brother," Sherlock walked passed John who was telling Harriet to sit down and stared at his brother.

"That's Sherlock's brother?" she whispered loudly to John. He confirmed the fact. "Right, naturally," Harriet was distant as she processed the information. Mycroft Holmes had offered a large sum of money for information on his brother as he silenced her screaming with his gloved hand.

"That doesn't mean he can just barge in here," she snapped out of it and stood up and stepped away from the chair much to the displeasure of John. She was bound to cut her bare foot on the smashed glass.

"Only I'm allowed to do that," Sherlock spared a glance at Harriet. He had no fear for Harriet's safety. His brother wouldn't hurt her. Harriet, despite having recovered from the initial shock of an intruder was still weary and was covering it up well in Sherlock's opinion.

Mycroft looked between the two with curiosity. How often did his brother pay unannounced visits to Harriet? He didn't do that to just anyone.

Harriet muttered something to herself "seems barging into people's homes without an invite runs the family." The Holmes brothers were clearly made from the same tree.

"What can we do for you Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with distaste.

Mycroft looked at his brother and then at Harriet, "oh I was here to see your knew house sitter. It is about time Mrs Hudson had some time away from you charming company."

"He's offered me a sum of money, more than enough to buy a house with, to spy on you and give him information but you know what?" her question was rhetorical. "I don't need money. I'll give him information right here. You," she pointed at Mycroft then Sherlock, "and you are both incredibly rude and as much as I was reserving this name for your brother I am afraid that I can also classify you as an insufferable arse." Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but Harriet wasn't finished, "I don't care who you are you can't walk into people's homes without an invite. I'm sick of it and don't even get me started on the fact you think it's okay to offer someone a bribe."

Sherlock smiled a small smile, "you should feel honoured Mycroft. Insufferable arse is a lovely title, don't you think." Harriet glared daggers at the consultant detective.

"Are you quite certain you won't take me up on my offer? I know what a teachers wage is like," Mycroft directed his question at the exasperated teacher.

"Sod off," she folded her arms.

"That's a no then," Mycroft stepped over to the kitchen doorway covered in a curtain of wooden beads. The glass crunched under his feet. "She's a keeper, truly charming individual," Mycroft muttered to his brother as he walked past. Sherlock ignored the comment.

"Goodbye Mycroft, don't leave it so long next time. You know how I love to see your face," Sherlock didn't turn around to see his brother leave. Harriet looked down at the glass on the kitchen floor, it needed clearing. "Don't move," Sherlock commanded, "John will clear it up."

Harriet opened her mouth to protest, "No its fine, I dropped the glass."

Sherlock ignored her, "John, Miss Thornton's shoes are by the door." John sighed knowing when to fight a battle with Sherlock and went to the door to retrieve the shoes.

Harriet slipped them on her feet, "I will take Miss Thornton upstairs. She needs a coffee."

"I need something stronger," she eyed the dusty green bottle of gin that was on the shelf next to Mrs Hudson's fridge. She also needed not to be bossed around.

"Nonsense," Sherlock swept from the room.

Harriet looked down at John who had retrieved a dustpan, "go with him. It's easier than protesting."

"Don't worry about it. I'll clean that up later," she said to John. He waved her off and said he didn't mind leaving Harriet with no choice but to join Sherlock upstairs.

She reluctantly trudged her way up the worn stairs only now realising she was wearing her pyjamas. The ones with the owls.

"My brother startled you," Sherlock stated as they stood in the kitchen of 221B once the kettle had boiled and coffee has been poured.

"Why was he there?" she asked the detective.

"To bribe you," Harriet already knew that what she wanted to know was why he needed to offer a bribe. "Mycroft is my arch enemy," Harriet stifled a small laugh; Sherlock observed her and turned his head away. It was not a laughing matter. Harriet sipped on her coffee in silence not wanting to offend the consulting detective further.

"Stay home tonight, please," Harriet looked at Sherlock oddly. There was something in the way he said it that made Harriet realise he was serious. Why the sudden turn in the conversation?

"I'm not going anywhere," she confirmed, her pyjamas were evidence enough.

"Good. Don't open the door either," Harriet wondered what was going on; "I'll let myself in."

"No you bloody well won't," she slammed the mug onto the side, coffee splattering over the sides. Harriet definitely hadn't invited him.

Sherlock's lips twitched slightly, "I know where the spare key is."

"You aren't invited," she answered back.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "you yourself said that is something my brother and I have in common." He was back to being an insufferable arse in Harriet's eyes.

"Except he seemed more human, caring even if he does it through bribery," Harriet regretted the words as soon as she'd said them.

"You have the wrong impression of my brother Miss Thornton," Sherlock replied curtly, "and you have the wrong impression of me."

Harriet was lost for words. What other impression did he give? She had a long list of words that described him. Arrogant, know it all, rude, eccentric, too smart for his own good. She could go on further. He had his good qualities. Harriet would be lying if she said he wasn't attractive but that was all that was good.

Sherlock stepped closer to Harriet who took a step back nervously. The man was an enigma. He continued to move closer. Harriet collided with a sharp object, her back pressed into the handle of the kitchen cupboards. A new wave of emotions swept over her. A mix of nervous anticipation and excitement. Sherlock was close enough to close a hand around her right wrist. Elevated pulse, pupils dilated.

Her anger dissipated and was replaced with something else. Something she hadn't felt in a long time. "You are right to think I'm an," he paused.

"Insufferable arse?" she supplied. Her initial shock had worn off. He raised a brow. "But," she prompted him to continue. He didn't. His hand stayed on her wrist and the other rested over her other hand on the worktop. She was caged in. Harriet contemplated fight or flight. John would surely reappear in a minute.

Sherlock's eyes gave nothing away as he held Harriet's gaze. She let out a small gasp as his lips tentatively touched hers. As soon as it happened it was over. Sherlock had moved away. Harriet couldn't quite bring herself to even believe it had happened. She blinked several times as she tried to figure it out.

"Is she all right?" John asked as he walked into the kitchen.

"Harriet is in shock," Sherlock explained to John. John had thought that Harriet had calmed down. What had happened? He then realised that Sherlock had called her Harriet and not Miss Thornton. Something had definitely happened but John knew better than to ask.

"Thank you for the coffee. I'll leave you to catch a bad guy," Harriet said with cheeks aflame. She let herself out and headed down the stairs as quick as she could. The consultant detective had proved her wrong.

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><p><strong>Thank you everyone for all the alerts, favorites and what not. Also thanks to Gwilwillith for the lovely review :D <strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**_The aim of the wise is not to secure pleasure, but to avoid pain_**  
><strong>Aristotle<strong>

Harriet couldn't get down the stairs quick enough. She closed the door and leant against it. 'What on earth was that?' she thought to herself. If it wasn't for the broken glass in the bin she would think the whole thing had been some horridly vivid dream.

She pushed herself off from the door, slipped off her shoes and crawled into bed. Sleep wasn't an option. Harriet tossed and turned. When she glanced at her watch she had only been in bed twenty minutes. Sherlock Holmes, the insufferable arse, had kissed her. Why? Why had he kissed her? She asked herself over and over again. Harriet had sworn herself off the male species since her mutual breakup. They were a pain and far too much hassle.

Harriet had once been kissed to shut her up by a friend she knew at university. She had talked most of the way through a sci-fi film. Her fiancé used to kiss her for clearing up his dirty socks from the bedroom floor. Sherlock Holmes had just kissed her because… Harriet had no explanation. No rational explanation at least. She had nothing to compare it to. Never before had an intruder tried to bribe her to spy on their brother who was thoroughly enjoying investigating a serial killer. It wasn't normal. "House sit for the old lady," her mother had said, "get away from school and life." In theory it had sounded easy enough.

She had the impression that Sherlock had kissed her to prove a point. It was the sort of thing she expected from him. He wanted to prove that she was wrong. Well she had news for him. She was not an object he could toy with. 'Sodding male species,' she cursed. If that's what he thought was right then she was correct in thinking him an insufferable arse. Her original impression was the right one.

"Know what?" John asked Sherlock who was pretending to rummage in the fridge for something to eat. The both knew he didn't eat on a case. "I wasn't going to ask you but I am. What the hell was that?" John demanded of his friend shortly after Harriet's swift departure.

"What was what?" Sherlock replied innocently. He'd had time to collect himself as he rummaged through the array of body parts, sticky substances in jars, mouldy cheese and leftover Chinese from three nights ago.

"Oh you know exactly what," the doctor replied.

"That was nothing."

"_That_ was not nothing Sherlock," Sherlock closed the fridge and looked at his friend with a perfectly stoic face. John left the matter. Sherlock clearly wasn't going to say anything.

"You said something to her," okay so John couldn't let the matter drop. Sherlock was staring at the images that had been stuck to the wall. John was still trying to figure out Harriet's strange behaviour.

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock confirmed. Technically it wasn't what he had said that had shocked her. No it had been something very different. Something that even Sherlock couldn't believe he'd done. He never stooped to such levels but the urge to have the last word had been too much. As John liked to put it, 'he's mister punch line, he will outlive God trying to have the last word.'

"Then Mycroft said something," John suggested after a while. He couldn't come up with another feasible answer. Oh if it had been anyone but Sherlock Holmes he would suspect he had just interrupted a very intimate situation. Harriet's behaviour certainly fit but this was Sherlock. Mr I'm-married-to-my-work.

"Mycroft left as soon as he realised she wasn't going to be manipulated by his bribe," Sherlock was growing increasingly annoyed with his friend.

"Yes and she was fine. Then she came upstairs with you. What happened? You called her Harriet," the chime of a phone stopped the conversation.

Sherlock took out his phone and looked at the message and concentrated on the words. "Lestrade has another victim, _Miss Thornton_ is not important," He was out the door before John had chance to put his shoes on. Sherlock and John were heading for Southwark Bridge where the latest victim had been discovered along with two dead police officers.

Harriet heard the door slam upstairs and two pairs of feet thunder down the stairs and out the front door that also slammed shut. She threw back the covers in annoyance. Sleep wasn't happening which left her with television or a book. She wasn't in the mood for a sappy love story so she went for the television. Her choices were football reruns, a black and white western, late night shopping, or live on poker on two different channels. She switched the ancient set off and went back to bed. Nytol, that's what she needed. Enough to knock her out for the next week. Harriet rummaged through her bag but found none. A search through Mrs Hudson's bathroom cabinet produced the same result. There was always that dusty bottle of gin. She could drink enough to send her to sleep but Harriet wanted to go on the London Eye tomorrow. Not the sort of thing to do with a hangover.

Harriet slipped into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and pulled on a hooded top. She picked up her bag and went out into the night. It was only eleven o'clock. The newsagents around the corner would still be open she could get some there. She didn't remember Sherlock's request until she was half way there. She contemplated turning back but didn't. She could look after herself. Without seeing a soul Harriet made it to the newsagents and bought a packed of Nytol. Sleeping aid in hand she walked back to 221 Baker Street. Sherlock and John need never know that she'd gone out although one of the pair would figure it out. Harriet had always been a terrible liar.

John inspected the two dead policemen. Anyone could see a gunshot to the head was cause of death. "Proof enough?" Sherlock said to Sergeant Sally Donavan who didn't believe the killer to be in the police. She remained silent.

"How long ago did this happen?" John asked Lestrade.

"About an hour ago. The officers were discovered by a man walking his dog.

Sherlock looked over at the man. "Early forties. Forty two to be precise. Expensive suit. Armani. Italian Leather shoes. Recently divorced judging by the ring mark on his finger. Dog isn't his. Lovers. Thinks by taking the dog he will get lucky. He's out of luck. She is sleeping with the doorman of his building,"

"Did the freak tell all that from a tiny speck of dust on his tie?" Donavan's comment was drenched in sarcasm.

"The aftershave the man is wearing is a cheap one. Whoever bought it for him doesn't really love him, they are just keeping him around," Sherlock took great pleasure in baffling police inspectors with his superior deductions and having the last word over Donavan was a pleasure too good to deny.

Sherlock stopped the paramedics wheeling the victim's body into the ambulance. "Where are you taking the body?" he demanded.

"St Bartholomew's," the older one answered.

"John," he called over to his friend, "we're going to St. Bart's. Lestrade there is another bit of paper with a riddle attached to one of the lamp posts. Text me the riddle." Sherlock walked away to end of the bridge and hailed a taxi. John followed hot on his heels.

Sherlock's phone buzzed as the taxi turned right off Upper Thames Street. He looked at the text. _'Golden treasure I contain, guarded by hundreds and thousands. Stored in a labyrinth where no man walks, yet men come often to seize my gold. By smoke I am overcome and robbed, then left to build my treasure anews. What am I?'_ he thought for a brief moment, "A beehive," he stated aloud.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked.

"The riddle. The answer is a beehive. The killer is confirming that we are right in thinking he works for the police. What greater hive of activity is there than the Metropolitan Police?" it was a rhetorical question from Sherlock.

"Right," John confirmed.

At St Bart's Sherlock and John inspected the body of the latest victim. "Surgeon," Sherlock told John, "look at her hands. Short nails."

"I knew her," Molly had just walked in looking half asleep.

"I thought your shift ended hours ago?" John asked.

"On call," she replied, "we went to the same university."

Molly carried out all her usual tests. Sherlock didn't wait for results. He bent over the pale young woman and noted again that she twenty five. He sniffed the victim's mouth. John had quickly discovered that this was not surprising behaviour for Sherlock when they first met. "Chloroform," it was a sweet smell that tingled his nose.

"So Harriet," John stated.

"Is home sleeping off her exciting evening," Sherlock replied. He knew John wasn't going to leave it alone. If anything Sherlock would try twice as hard to be difficult after his momentary lapse in judgement. It was bad enough in his eyes that he had behaved in such a childish manner. He never cared what other people thought of him. Harriet was different. He couldn't understand why he cared what she thought of him.

"I don't get it. If you didn't say anything to her then what did you do?" John watched his friend carefully for a reaction. There was none. "You're not denying it," he acknowledged.

"Denying what? Make an accusation first John," his tone implied stupidity on John's part.

Sherlock pushed back the stool, stood up and strode out of the lab leaving the Southwark Surgeon lying on a cold slab. "Thank you again Molly," John found himself calling. He'd lost count of the number of times he had to do that on behalf of his friend.

It happened too fast for Harriet to comprehend. One minute she was in a deserted street. The next she was putting her key in the door, foot on the step when a pair of muscled arms yanked her back. A grubby rag was forced over her nose and mouth. Harriet had no choice but to breathe in the sweet-smelling substance. Her box of Nytol dropped to the floor as her grip relaxed. She slipped into unconsciousness becoming a dead weight in the stranger's arms. A rattling van pulled up outside. The back doors opened and Harriet was none too carefully bundled inside. Her key remained lodged in the lock, Mrs Hudson's fuzzy cat key ring swung from the recent contact. Lying on the step was the dropped box of Nytol.

"You insulted her," John was still on the subject of Harriet.

"I insult everyone," he answered.

"Then you didn't insult her. Sherlock did you say something nice?" John couldn't believe he was even asking the question.

"Got yourself a girl?" the cockney driver of their black cab asked. Sherlock bristled in offence. Sherlock Holmes was married to his work he certainly did not have a girl.

"No," Sherlock snapped at the driver.

"Sorry," the cabby looked in his rear-view mirror, "didn't realise you two were a couple."

"We're not a couple," John corrected the driver then turned to look at Sherlock, "why do people always think that?" he saw that Sherlock was about to reply, "No on second thoughts I don't want to know."

"Get her some flowers, girls like flowers," the driver didn't give up the conversation. Sherlock's fingers twitched in annoyance.

"I wish you would tell me what happened?" John tried a softer approach.

"It's not-" Sherlock began.

"-important. I know," John looked at his friend who was staring out of the window; Sherlock was annoyed at being interrupted.

"I proved her wrong," he finally admitted to get John off the case. John wasn't going to have the last word by interrupting him. Unfortunately it meant giving away a small detail about his and Harriet's exchange for want of an acceptable description in Sherlock's eyes.

"So you did say something," it would take a lifetime and then some for John Watson to understand the working of Sherlock's mind.

"No," Sherlock sighed heavily. He was not going say anymore. If his friend didn't have the intelligence to figure it out then it wasn't worth him knowing.

The taxi pulled up outside 220 Baker Street. The driver clearly wasn't paying attention when Sherlock had said 221 Baker Street. Now he would have to walk a greater distance.

"Are those Mrs Hudson's keys?" John asked in bewilderment as they approached 221.

Sherlock bent down and picked up the box of Nytol. He looked to the door, "John knock on Harriet's door." He already knew the response before John called down the hall. A horribly unfamiliar feeling washed over the detective. Something wasn't right.

"You said she was sleeping," John called down the hall. Sherlock had known the moment he'd seen the key and the Nytol that Harriet wasn't sleeping. This was his fault. If he hadn't been insistent on having the upper hand then Harriet would have gone to bed and been able to sleep. She wouldn't have had to go out and get something to help her sleep. If she couldn't sleep she would have sense enough to remember his warning. He had left Harriet without her full senses. Sherlock should have been able to predict this.

"I kissed her John. To prove her wrong," Sherlock stormed up to 221B. John was dialling Lestrade.

"Prove her wrong? You manipulated her. You are unbelievable," he waited for the line to connect. John was worried for Harriet's safety and so it seemed was Sherlock.

"It is not important now," he picked up his violin and plucked at the strings. He had to think. Where was she? Was she even alive?

"Lestrade," John took the call to his room away from Sherlock and his violin.

"Think John what does she do?" Sherlock said to his only friend once he returned. Sherlock waved the bow at John.

"Teaches," John answered.

"What's the next bridge?"

"Tower Bridge. The Tower Teacher. You don't think," he left the question open not quite bringing himself to say it aloud. Sherlock's hard eyes softened. The smallest hints of emotion slipped through the cracks. It was enough for John to see that Sherlock harboured something, all be it the briefest flicker, towards Harriet. John was one of the few people lucky enough to know that Sherlock possessed a heart as well as a brain. He was the only one of the due to know that Sherlock hadn't kissed Harriet just to prove her wrong. The consultant detective had yet to figure this mystery out for himself.

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><p><strong>Wow, woke up this morning to a lovely bunch of reviews. Thank you Gwilwillith, SummerJane'10, shedanceswithherpast and sjt90 :D <strong>

**Chances are I won't be able to update till friday, silly real life. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7****_  
><em>**

**_'Reason has always existed, but not always in a reasonable form'_**  
><strong>Karl Marx<strong>

Lestrade and his team wasted no time in searching 221 Baker Street. Sherlock read every single one of them like a book as they walked through the door.

"Too tall."

"Nut allergy."

"Fear of sharp objects."

"New shoes."

"Joined the police to please parents, wants to be a ballet dancer, not our killer," the last one earned Sherlock a disapproving look from the officer who had just walked in and another from John. Sherlock's mood had been unbearable. Not that his move was ever bearable when the police were involved. In Sherlock's opinion Anderson's presence alone was enough to lower the whole rooms IQ.

Not a single one of the officers was the killer. They had no leads. No prints. A security camera across the street had picked up the abduction. Sherlock watched it again and again as the police searched Baker Street. He would occasional defend his experiments against the scrutinising eyes of Donavan, Anderson and even Lestrade. The rotting remains of a dead fox were stuck in plastic sandwich containers in the fridge. Sherlock's defence fell on disinterested ears.

After once again explaining why there was a mould culture growing in a dish on the kitchen shelf Sherlock concentrated hard on ignoring the bumbling idiots in the room and instead looked at the grainy video. The man appeared, masked. A criminal would have to be stupid to show his face. Sherlock didn't blink as he watched an unaware Harriet go limp in the bastard's arms. She didn't have time to struggle.

"Why Miss Thornton?" Lestrade asked John.

"Huh?" John looked at Lestrade. He had been too busy watching Sherlock. "She's Mrs Hudson's house sitter." John didn't mention Sherlock's revelation before the police arrived. No, that would not go down well. John still couldn't believe what he had heard. Sherlock did not go round kissing women. Then again if it was to prove a point then he wasn't all that surprised. What was surprising was the lack of snide comments, particularly those directed at Donavan and Anderson. He didn't refrain completely but for Sherlock he was uncharacteristically reasonable. It was almost unheard of for Sherlock Holmes to refrain from belittling them. "You okay?" John asked his friend quietly.

"Of course I'm okay. I have a serial killer to catch," Sherlock replied without his usual enthusiasm for such a case. They were empty words used to keep up appearances. There was no telling what was going on inside his head. John doubted whether Sherlock even knew half the time.

Harriet's head was sore. Too much Nytol, she thought. Harriet tried to move. She wasn't in bed. No she was sat on something much firmer. Memories of the attack fizzled into her mind as she tried to move. A chair. She was on a chair. It wobbled slightly as she tried to move her arms. No use. They were tied behind her within something thin and strong. The back of the chair dug in against her back and her arms ached a dull ache. Harriet's feet were slightly numb; whatever was holding them in place was far too tight. She was scared. Her racing heart and nausea fuelled her panic.

Sherlock Holmes played the video again. He wasn't concentrating on the abductor he was looking at Harriet. It was his fault. This was why Sherlock didn't do feelings. "Is he okay?" Lestrade asked John out in the dark hall.

"What Sherlock? Yeah you know what he's like he loves this sort of thing," John defended his friend out of loyalty.

"It's just usually he will only watch security footage twice if that," Lestrade had noticed the change in Sherlock's behaviour. John had no answer.

It was the early hours of the morning. The police were still a presence at Baker Street and Harriet was still missing. Harriet was still missing. That was the key thing to Sherlock. The fun had been taken out of the case. John was worried about his friend. He was sat in the arm chair plucking absently at the violin. When Lestrade asked him to stop Sherlock went out of his way to make sure the plucked strings made a horrible sound. Lestrade didn't ask again.

The dark look on Sherlock's face was as plain as day. He didn't like his mind imagining things but couldn't help it. Every worse case scenario for Harriet kept circulating in his brilliant mind occupying valuable thinking space. He had always been able to turn off feelings and emotions but this was different. There was no rational explanation for it. Not in his eyes.

Sherlock had no lead on Harriet's location but he knew exactly where she would turn up. Hanging from Tower Bridge. Security had been stepped up on the bridge but with the killer working for the police it was only a matter of time before that problem was overcome. The image of Harriet's cold dead body hanging limply from the bridge haunted Sherlock.

Sherlock stood from his seat and walked out of the flat, "Lestrade, John." The detective inspector and doctor followed Sherlock from Baker Street.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock answered and climbed into the back of the unmarked silver police car.

Harriet struggled against the ties binding her. It was wire. The wire dug into her wrists and ankles. The more she moved the more it dug in to a skin. The air was damp and cold. Her lips were dry and cracked. A horrible taste lingered in her thirsty mouth. Her heart beat at a thousand beats a minute.

"Someone! Someone in here is our killer!" Sherlock declared loudly as he waltzed through the main door of New Scotland yard. His arms were out wide as he turned around to face Lestrade and John.

The man behind reception looked up at the loud intrusion. Sherlock turned back around and walked up to Lestrade's office. When John and Lestrade caught up he was sat in the black leather chair behind the desk. His feet resting on the desk. Sherlock's hand were pressed together, his fingertips touching his chin. John and Lestrade waited in silence. By now they knew better than to interrupt.

Sherlock pulled his hands from his chin and clasped them together. His phone chimed from his jacket pocket. Ignoring the inspector and the doctor he unlocked the phone and scanned his eyes over the message.

_You really should keep a better eye on your playthings. M_

Sherlock ignored his brother's text and put the phone back in his pocket. "Who was that?" John asked.

"Not my problem right now," Sherlock answered.

"Mycroft," John confirmed.

"The killer knows what's going on day in day out. Every move you make he has seen. We know from the paper he takes notes. Telephone operator. Doesn't like his job. Doodles. Search his internet history. Addicted to solving riddles. Handles case files," Sherlock's monologue lacked its usual flare. It was as if he was going through the motions. "Left handed," Sherlock strolled out into the reception, "and here is our killer."

"There's no one here," Lestrade noted.

"No, would you hang around if you knew the one person who could pick you out in a crowded sea of faces had just walked in?" Sherlock had an answer for everything

"The receptionist?" John sought confirmation that he was following Sherlock's train of thought.

"Mike? How do you know it's him?" Lestrade questioned.

"He's left handed," Sherlock hated having to repeat himself.

"Ten percent of the world's population is left handed," Lestrade didn't like knowing the police had been compromised.

Sherlock gave him the 'don't be stupid face' it was the same one that said 'I'm right.'

Harriet had been yelling for what felt like hours. Her throat was hoarse from screaming. The damp air penetrated her lungs and the darkness played tricks on her eyes. Every tiny sound struck a new chord of fear. Between sobs Harriet struggled with the ties that bound her. The more she struggled the more pain she was in. As time passed she screamed less and yelled quieter. Hope was beginning to drain. Surely the police would find her. Sherlock would. She'd just met the man but knew enough already to know that he would find the killer. He said it himself 'I'm not doing it because it's right. I'm doing it because it's fun.'

"We're looking for Mike Cash. Receptionist. Last seen," Lestrade looked at his watch, his other arm pressing the phone to his ear, "two twenty am."

"You won't find him. He will be long gone but you can expect a note. Another riddle," Sherlock left the station without a goodbye. He was going to speak to the homeless network. Harriet was somewhere and she had to be alive.

John waited for Sherlock back at Baker Street. He was exhausted but wouldn't sleep not until he knew Sherlock was back safely. After his revelation of earlier events John was waiting for something a little more characteristic from Sherlock. An angry outburst and breaking of an object would be preferable to the silent brooding man that had occupied the chair in front of him hours before. It unnerved John. If Harriet was like any other victim Sherlock would be jumping for joy so to speak but this was differently. If John didn't know any better he would say his eccentric friend was genuinely concerned. With a heavy sigh John sipped his tea and waited.

The front door slammed downstairs. Someone, John knew who raced up the stairs and swung the door wide open letting it close with a slam. "Alright?" John asked tentatively.

"Of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock snapped. John reached over to the table next to him and picked up a box. He threw it towards Sherlock. Sherlock took three nicotine patches from the box, shook off his jacket, rolled up his sleeve hastily and stuck them to his alabaster skin. He flexed his arm then pulled his sleeve down.

"No reason," John replied. There was a brief moment of silence as Sherlock paced, John spoke up, "we should call Mrs Hudson."

"Why? What good will that do?" Sherlock snapped again. John regarded his friend carefully.

"She will want to know Harriet is missing. Imagine how bad she will feel if something happens to Harriet and she knew nothing of it," John planned to call Mrs Hudson at her sisters as soon as morning rolled by.

"Something bad has happened," Sherlock replied.

"That wasn't what I meant. I meant if Harriet should be found," he let the statement hang.

Sherlock spun around to look at John, "if Miss Thornton should turn up dead then it is her own fault. I told her not to go out at night." It was no use arguing.

Sherlock had been right about the note; it arrived in an email to Greg Lestrade.

"This is a most unusual paragraph. This writing may annoy you until you find out why it is so unusual, for you won't find a solution instantly. But don't go into a tailspin about it or go crazy, for it isn't that difficult. But you will admit that it is most unusual. This writing looks so ordinary that you might think that nothing is wrong with it. And, in fact, nothing is wrong with it. But it is unusual, and you must ask why. If you study and think about it, you may find out why, but you must do it without any coaching of any kind. No doubt if you work at it for long, it will dawn on you...who knows? So start to study it now, and try your skill at finding out what is so unusual about this writing. If you can do it in half an hour, you may claim an approach to wisdom, but if you can't do it in half an hour…" Sherlock read the forwarded email and left for Scotland Yard with John. Sherlock glanced over the message again when he arrived.

"No numbers, not a code. You'll find this riddle in his internet history. Last item printed. Confirmation he is our killer. Acknowledgement. Alphabet. No E in the text. Code? No. Name? No Place? No. Postcode? E. East London," Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"East London. Sherlock, that's a pretty big area," Lestrade said.

"Harriet is being kept in the area," John was tempted to point out to Sherlock that he had called her Harriet and not Miss Thornton but there was a time and a place.

As Sherlock strode out into the reception area the phone rang. The lady who had come in several hours earlier than usual to cover for the rogue receptionist killer picked it up. "I'm sorry can you repeat that?" she asked.

Sherlock immediately homed in on the conversation. The receptionist looked up at him in confusion. Sherlock waltzed over and took the phone.

"Mr Cash I presume," Sherlock drawled.

"Ah Mr Holmes. I believe I have someone who belongs to you," a slick voice spoke from the other end of the line.

"She doesn't belong to me," Sherlock replied the mere thought disgusted him.

"Not you no," the killer was playing along, "but she belongs at Baker Street. You're precious Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock was listening for any background noise that might help

"That is where you show your stupidity. The woman you are referring to is not Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied smartly.

"No I think your right. She doesn't look like a Mrs to me, such a pretty young thing," something twisted in Sherlock's stomach. He couldn't identify why.

"I'm glad I get to speak to you. I was afraid I would have to leave a message with Melinda,"

"A message for me? I'm deeply honoured," Sherlock's retort dripped with sarcasm.

"Here's one for you, how many letters in the correct answer?" the voice on the phone spoke.

"I hate riddles," Sherlock stated into the receiver.

"You can't help yourself," Sherlock could hear the malicious smile in the killer's voice.

"Sixteen," he answered.

"Good boy," the voice was condescending. Sherlock hung up not wanting to hear more. John and Lestrade were looking at him expectantly.

"E16," Sherlock stated. He knew it was still a pretty big area. "Oh this is brilliant" We know where to find the killer!" Sherlock managed to dig deep and find his usual enthusiasm for a murder even if it was all an act. He was not enjoying this case.

"Sherlock, this is Harriet. You shouldn't be such," John paused for a word.

"An arse," Lestrade supplied. Sherlock froze for a moment. That's what Harriet called him. He mentally scolded himself, it didn't matter what Harriet did.

"I've been told on numerous occasions that I am indeed an insufferable arse. This is nothing new. You need to hire yourself an intelligent receptionist. She lowers the IQ of the whole Metropolitan Police by at least 20," Lestrade ignored Sherlock's Sherlockness. There was no other way to describe it. "Now if you don't mind I'm having far too much fun please don't spoil it," Sherlock led the way from Lestrade's office with John.

"You're unbelievable!" Lestrade yelled

"Not good?" Sherlock knew it wasn't good.

"A little bit not good," John replied. Sherlock couldn't win if he had no excitement for the case John suspected something and became incredibly dull in his questioning. Sherlock was not concerned with such trivial things. If he showed any excitement at the prospect of having something to solve then John bothered him just as much. He didn't care if it was an inappropriate response.

Harriet couldn't keep her head up any longer, it slumped forward. She had no tears left. Sherlock Holmes wasn't coming. Neither were the police. How would they know where to find her when she didn't even know where she was?

"We are looking for an abandoned building. Near a train line," Sherlock searched every bit of his inner hard drive. "E16, train at," he glanced at his watch, "five thirty six am. Royal Victoria Station. Victoria docks. Platform bus service. 147, 241 and N50. Am I wrong?"

As fast as Sherlock reeled off the details Lestrade was attempting to type the information into his computer but couldn't type quickly enough. Sherlock waited impatiently. "Your right," Lestrade eventually confirmed.

"Of course I'm right," Sherlock answered. Lestrade called in the information into the team that had been at Baker Street as the trio made their way out to car and towards the Victoria docks area. Sherlock stared out of the window his mind, despite several attempts otherwise, wondered to Harriet. He had kissed her to prove a point and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. What was he out to prove now? There was no reasonable explanation for it. Had he not been a car with Lestrade Sherlock would have considered sharing this with John.

The dark outline of a man appeared as a door opened. The light blinded Harriet. She blinked as her eyes adjusted. She couldn't concentrate on the man, her vision was blurry. In his hands he had a thick brown rope. She had no trouble in seeing the item that would end her life. Harriet's hope plummeted in defeat. She was the next victim of the Bridge murders. Why else would he have a rope?

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><p><strong>As promised, new chapter. Thank you to every one who reviewed. If you get two alerts for this I'm sorry. Fanfiction was being silly. I might try and get another chapter finished by tomorrow if your lucky :P <strong>


	8. Chapter 8

_****_**Chapter 8**

_**'The ultimate value of life depends upon awareness and the power of contemplation rather than upon mere survival' **_  
><strong>Aristotle<strong>

The rope tightened around Harriet's throat. A pair of calloused hands checked the secure knot. The thick knot rested against the back of her neck. She had gone beyond registering pain and discomfort. The tall burly man left the room and slid the bolt back into place leaving Harriet alone in the dark. Why had they just left her there? Harriet felt so detached from all her senses. It was pure defeat. She was on deaths row.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the text from the withheld number.

_E16 2PX._

"Turn left ahead," Sherlock knew exactly where to find Harriet. The homeless network had been a sound investment. An elderly woman had seen an unconscious young woman dragged into an old shipping warehouse in Victoria Docks.

As soon as the car screeched to a halt outside Sherlock and John were already slamming their doors and tearing off towards the building. Lestrade followed in hot pursuit whilst calling it in for back up.

Sherlock shouldered open a rusty metal door and stumbled in. He almost collided with a stocky tattooed man. Sherlock righted himself and stepped back towards John and Lestrade.

"Mr Holmes?" Sherlock remained quiet. "Mr Cash was wondering how long it would take you." The three knights in shining armour followed the man past rusty machinery and empty crates towards the centre of a vast empty shell of a warehouse. The smell of oil polluted the air and a fine layer of dust covered everything in sight.

"Ah Mr Holmes, solved our little riddle then. Nothing more entertaining when sat behind a desk doing a job you clearly love very much. Oh and I see you bought the minions," Mr Cash was dressed in his work uniform. A clear torment towards the order he was supposed to respect.

"Yes, I would be lost without them," Sherlock's words dripped with sarcasm. John shifted slightly in annoyance.

"Oh a comedian. Yes I have been told you have a charming wit about you," this caught Sherlock's attention.

"Talking to someone we know?" Sherlock placed his hands in his pockets at an attempt to show disinterest. Truth was he knew the answer before Mike Cash had a chance to tell him.

"Oh yes, Jim Moriarty sends his love," a malicious smile spread across Cash's face.

John looked at Sherlock trying to gauge a reaction and asked, "Moriarty. What does he have to do with this?"

Far too quick for any of them to anticipate Cash pulled out a gun and put two bullets into two bodies. An echo reverberated through the vast warehouse. The stocky man that had waited for them at the door and another taller man that stood near Cash fell dead. Cash dropped the gun on the floor and held his hands up. "Oh I'm not going to put up a fight. Mr Moriarty will ensure my freedom eventually."

"You can tell Moriarty we'll catch up to him," Lestrade handcuffed Cash roughly. Sherlock stared at the man in handcuffs. Why would Moriarty use him? What had this all been for? Oh he knew the answer to that. Moriarty was proving he could get to the people close to Sherlock. He had manipulated someone into becoming a murderer to get Sherlock's attention.

"Harriet is in the room off to the far right," he stated for the benefit of John who immediately took off in the direction. Sherlock cast one last look at the monster in handcuffs before following. A part of him wanted to pick up the gun and fired several rounds into the man for what he had done to Harriet.

Death had her in his sights. Harriet heard the echoing clank of the bolt being slid back from the door. It was one of the last sounds she would ever hear not that any of the sounds she was haring registered. She was vaguely aware of shouting but couldn't make any sense of it. Harriet was exhausted. Could they not put her out of her misery already?

"Harriet?" her name stirred the semi-conscious young teacher. She let her eyes open slightly, a blurry object was close. Her head swam as she tried to work out why she wasn't dead yet. "It's John." Still nothing. "John Watson. We're here. Sherlock is here," Harriet didn't understand what was going on. The pressure lifted from her neck as careful hands removed the rope. John tossed the rope aside and stepped behind Harriet. She had been staring at him intently in the hope that the appearance of the Baker Street boys wasn't a dream.

"W-w-where are you going?" she asked in a scratchy voice that faded. It had finally registered that what she was seeing wasn't a dream. How could they be leaving her now? She was still tied to the chair. "D-don't l-leave me here," she choked back a sob.

John had kneeled down in front of Harriet to reassure her. He had hoped Sherlock would have helped but he didn't. "I'm going to get something to cut the wire. We won't leave you," John reassured the petrified young woman. She nodded silently and looked at Sherlock. He wasn't looking at her.

Sherlock looked everywhere but at Harriet. He was selfish not wanting to see what he had caused. Harriet shivered as she stared at the cold hearted man with his hands absently stuck into his pockets meters away from her.

John returned and cut away the wire at her wrist. Harriet whimpered slightly as she moved her numb arms. "I'll call an ambulance," Lestrade confirmed quietly to John once he'd contacted the station.

"No," Harriet protested weakly as John cut away the wire at her feet. Sherlock looked at Harriet sharply before looking away again. She didn't notice. "Don't waste their time," she wasn't dying. Harriet knew she would be fine now. She had only been missing one night.

"Harriet," she turned to look at Sherlock. It was the first thing he had said, "I had thought you had some level intelligence. You have just proved me wrong."

"Sherlock!" John scolded his friend's atrocious behaviour.

Harriet, who had remained seated shakily, got to her feet. She wobbled as her head swam. Standing up was all she could manage, she didn't trust her feet for the time being. John hovered awkwardly should she collapse to the floor. "Listen here you insufferable arse," it lacked her usual bite but was enough for Sherlock to see she was fine. He wanted to see her riled up. It was his way of confirming that she was okay. To him it made perfect sense. If the mind was fine then that was enough. Harriet's weak voice waivered, "I don't care what you think."

Lestrade debated for a moment, he had a duty of care. John was a doctor but she had to be checked out in a hospital, he sighed. There was no use fighting anything when Sherlock was involved, "no ambulance but we will be taking you to the hospital."

"It is common sense or have you lost that as well as your intelligence," Sherlock made a snide remark. Harriet ignored him this time. He didn't deserve the satisfaction. Harriet accepted defeated and allowed her shaky legs to move. She stumbled slightly but refused any help. It was humiliating enough already. "What are you trying to prove?" Sherlock was behind her as they walked from the dilapidated building.

Harriet was horrified at what she was hearing. She had realised for herself that Sherlock wasn't the friendliest person in the world. He was a rude, arrogant arse but she had hoped he had some compassion. She ignored his snarky comments. Now he had called her on it she wouldn't admit it not that she would in the first place but she as trying to prove something. He was being hypocritical if he could confirm her suspicions that he had kissed her to prove something then she could equally prove that she was not a stereotypical young woman who thought it would mean something. No, she was a strong individual who didn't need any member of the male species. She certainly didn't need a smartly dressed arsehole to be her knight in shining armour. His cold distant behaviour only added more evidence in her favour. Harriet Thornton could look after herself, well, most of the time when she was being abducted by bridge obsessed serial killers.

She pressed her head against the cold glass of the car window. She was cold. John had given her is jacket to wrap around her shoulders. She was grateful for all the help he had given her. His friend certainly wasn't capable of it. They were talking but she wasn't listening. John sat next to her in the car and quietly advised her that she should rest. Every now and then something registered but she still couldn't get her head around the fact the killer had handed himself in without any sort of fight. What had been the point? Attention? Glory?

John and Lestrade waited in the reception area. John wasn't going to leave her in the hospital alone. Her mother had been called and was rushing to London as they waited. Sherlock had disappeared. They assumed he would be around somewhere. Lestrade was waiting to take a statement from Harriet so they could charge the man with something else that could be added to his long list of convictions.

Harriet was mortified to be poked and prodded by pitying doctors and nurses. It wounded her pride further. She was close to walking out if one more person said 'oh, you poor thing.' Her head was sore. They kept rambling on about shock, dehydration and her mental state. Nothing they could do helped the throbbing headache. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate their help she was just uncomfortable with it.

John popped his head around the door once they nurses had left, "how are you feeling?"

"Fine," she snapped but instantly regretted it. He was only trying to help. "Sorry," she mumbled. As a doctor John had learnt not to take things personally that patients said.

"Don't worry about it. Lestrade wants to know if he can take a statement," he inquired. Harriet nodded her throat still quite sore from all her shouting. It was better for her to get it over with now so that she could sleep before the arrival of her fussy mother.

Sherlock opened the door to Baker Street and headed up to 221B. The flat was dark and empty. Things were out of place from the police's intrusion. It was four in the morning and the case was over. Sherlock couldn't sleep and he certainly wasn't hungry. He picked up his violin and went over to the window to wait for John's return.

John would be out for murder when he found out that Sherlock had gone home without seeing if Harriet was okay. Why should he stay? The case was over. Now he needed something else to entertain himself. With no case Sherlock's thoughts began to wander into dangerous territory. Harriet would be fine but she was still in hospital because of him. His momentary lapse in judgement and caused this and now Moriarty was involved. Sherlock doubted whether he had discovered that Cash had made a mistake and had not grabbed Mrs Hudson. Something didn't sit right. If the original target had been RMs Hudson then why were all the other victims' professional women of Harriet's age? No, Harriet had been the intended target but how did Moriarty know who she was? Sherlock wasted no time in coming to the conclusion that Harriet needed to get as far away from him as physically possible. Australia was nice this time of year, she could go there.

Lestrade left and returned to Scotland Yard leaving John waiting with Harriet for her mother to arrive. Harriet was too wired to sleep after recounting events as best she could. "Where's Sherlock?" she asked John.

"He err, he's getting something to drink," John lied.

"He left," they both knew it. Harriet tried to hide her disappointment, "I wanted to say thank you to you both."

"There is no need to do that," John replied. Harriet also wanted to know if Sherlock showed any form of human emotion and cared to see that she was alright but as he said, 'I'm not doing it because it's right. I'm doing it because it's fun.' The case was over, he had his fun and now she had been abandoned like a toy by a spoiled child. Was Sherlock Holmes really so unfeeling? _"You have the wrong impression of my brother Miss Thornton," Sherlock replied curtly, "and you have the wrong impression of me."_ His words took a hold of her mind like a contagious disease; Harriet refused to believe it but what other explanation was there for his absence. She tried to ignore these bothersome thoughts but it was no use. John took her withdrawn quietness as tiredness.

Harriet fell into a light slumber once John left. He had protested that she shouldn't be alone but really it was what she craved most. The hospital staff would make sure she was safe. All she wanted was a moments peace before her mother's arrival.

"Oh my darling," the peace was shattered. Her mother swamped her in a hug almost suffocating Harriet. The distinct smell of her mother's perfume filled her nose reminding her of her familiar and safe home. It was all that was needed for Harriet's calm outward appearance to crumble. She cried into her mother's shoulder.

"You cold unfeeling bastard!" John stormed into 221B Baker Street as dawn approached. He didn't care who he woke up he had to make sure Sherlock Holmes was aware of his appalling disappearing act. Most of the street was probably awake courtesy of Sherlock's considerate violin playing anyway.

"Good morning John," Sherlock called over the violin ignoring his friend obvious angry display of emotions.

"She asked for you?" Sherlock paused his violin playing, "she wanted to say thank you." He started again.

Sherlock scoffed quietly fuelling John's anger further. How could he be so indifferent and disinterested? Then again it was Sherlock.

"You kissed her and now you couldn't care less, you are unbelievable," John left the room.

"It was to prove a point!" Sherlock shouted to his friend.

John returned. Sensing his friend's displeasure Sherlock held the bow of his violin out in front of him in case john should feel the need to land a punch that he was desperate to do. His clenched fist and white knuckles were more than enough evidence for Sherlock. "Well prove another point. Prove you care!" John left again for his own room and sleep.

Sherlock spun around, his dressing gown billowing behind him and stepped with intent over to the door. He slammed it and resumed his very loud obnoxious violin playing.

John shoved his head under his pillow to try and drown out the sound of Sherlock throwing a paddy like a child. He was too tired to argue further. If the high functioning sociopath had yet to figure it out John wasn't going to tell him.

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><p><strong>Thank you <strong>**Gwilwillith and kie 1993 for reviewing, was lovely to wake up to. So I'm a bit stuck as to where to go next. Does Harriet return to Baker Street or to her home? Sherlock will be turning up at her home at some point because she can't stay in London forever. I'll try and update either tomorrow or wednesday but got a ridiculously busy week of marking work. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

'_**The obscure we see eventually. The completely obvious, it seems, takes longer'**_

**Edward R Murrow**

"We'll go back to Mrs Hudson's, where does she live?" Harriet had been grateful for her mother's company in those first few hours. Now, having got the tears out of her system, Harriet was back to wanting time alone. She wanted a hot bubble bath with a good book and glass wine then she could curl up in bed with a large bar of chocolate and forgot about the world for a night. Her mother had other ideas. "I really wish you would take the offer of counselling. Such a terrible experience," her mother berated Harriet for what felt like the hundredth time.

Harriet's mother had stayed with her for the rest of the night and it was now afternoon the following day. "Mum, I don't need counselling. I need a glass or wine or maybe some gin and tonic and I'd like to wash it down with a bar of galaxy. You always said we had twenty four hours to mope about something and then we had to get over it."

"Oh honey, that applied to a bad result in a test. You remember that history exam you had to sit three times, "Harriet remembered it all too well, it nearly crushed her hopes of a history degree, "you we're just kidnapped and very nearly murdered. This is different."

"For the last time mum I'll be fine," Harriet smoothed out the sheets of the hospital bed in her lap. John had called to say he was bringing a bag of her things over so she could get changed.

"Always so stubborn," she heard her mother mutter.

Harriet and her mother would be returning home the following morning on a train. They would be staying at Mrs Hudson's that night. The elderly woman would have returned from her holidays by then. Harriet felt terrible for ending the woman's holiday early but it was better than arguing with her mother that she wanted to stay the battle over counselling was enough for now.

"Hello," John Watson popped his head around the door of Harriet's room. At least they'd given her a private room.

"Oh hello, come in," Harriet smiled glad that there someone else there to grab her mother's attention, "I bought you some things."

"Thank you but how did you get into the flat?" Harriet knew it was a silly question before she'd even asked it, "Actually don't answer that. John Watson this is my mother, Mary Thornton."

"A pleasure to meet you John. Thank you for everything that you have done for my daughter," her mother blushed profusely as she shook his hand. Harriet smiled apologetically at John.

"No Sherlock?" Harriet asked trying to keep the hope from her voice. John thought about his eccentric sociopathic friend. He was still playing that godforsaken violin.

"He's busy," John answered.

"Oh," she didn't hide the disappointment well.

John took pity on the girl, "I passed on your thanks though."

"That's good," Harriet unzipped her bag and glanced inside, "John did you pack this?"

"No. It was err, Sherlock," John confessed. Harriet looked at the bag. Yep, definitely packed by a man even if it was a highly intelligent one. At least underwear had been included. Harriet tried to smoother the mortification that Sherlock had been through her knickers. If her mother wasn't present she'd have been more verbal in her curses.

Harriet caught sight of something bright. The owl pyjamas. Oh dear, the last she wore those had been the night before prior to her changing to go out for the Nytol. The pyjamas she'd worn when Sherlock had seen fit to kiss her. Oh the mortification just kept coming. She shoved them to the bottom of her bag and out of sight. She was going home why would she need pyjamas? We're they there to remind her?

"He enjoys entering places uninvited," Harriet said to John as soon as her mother left to get her discharge papers.

Sherlock had indeed entered Mrs Hudson's flat when John had gone to bed. John had been surprised at the action by Sherlock who played it off as boredom, he could rummage through Harriet's things and continue to deduce about her. Sherlock didn't own up to having an inexplainable curiosity about Harriet. Oh he had deduced her profession, her habits, her personality and even her last relationship. It was that which caught his attention. He wanted to know about the man she had been engaged to. There was more than enough evidence in her bag. A t-shirt far too big for a woman. The lingering smell of men's aftershave on the bag. They had clearly been away for a weekend together prior to the break up. An attempt to try and fix the relationship. Her watch was on the bedside table. Instantly Sherlock knew she hadn't chosen it. The watch was a gift but instead of throwing it out or returning it following the breakup Harriet had kept it. They were still friends and she needed a watch to teach. Practical.

Why did it matter to him about the man? He had been a sportsman, or at least tried. The white sports socks in the side pocket of case had been forgotten. Tennis. His job, now that was a hard one. Sherlock leaned towards estate agent but couldn't be completely certain. One thing he was certain off and that was they had been childhood friends who had followed the natural course into love. As the L word filtered through his mind it was laced with equal distaste to had it been said out loud. Sherlock had an incapacity for love.

John had raised an eyebrow at the bag that was waiting in the living room that morning. Sherlock didn't say anything. It was one of those moods. The silent ones. They were always the ones that troubled John slightly but soon enough a case would come along and Sherlock would have a complete flip of mood and behaviour. For John it was better not to pass comment on the bag. He picked it up and hailed a taxi to the hospital.

Harriet, her mother and John left through the main doors of the hospital. It was refreshing for Harriet. A part of her felt apprehensive even though the killer was behind bars it really bought home the fact that you never knew who a person was. Anyone of the people in the street could be equally capable of such violent acts but it was no use dwelling on it. How could anyone ever get on with their lives if they did?

The journey to Baker Street was a quiet one. Her mother passed comment on the landmarks. To Harriet they had lost their original fascination. They were still spectacular but for the past ten days they had constantly been in her sight. "Oh would you look at that," her mother exclaimed. They had passed a young man wearing dark sunglasses, electric blue hair and an interesting patterned jump suit. Harriet exchanged an amused smile with John. Her mother was a very prim and proper English woman such sights were unheard of where she lived but this was London.

The cab pulled up outside 221 Baker Street. Harriet looked at the front door. Suddenly she was very apprehensive about getting out of the cab. The feeling of those arms that grabbed her and that horrible sickly sweet smell of the chloroform washed over her. She shivered unnoticed by anyone apart from the man in the window upstairs.

Sherlock had been waiting for the cab. He had the courtesy to stop playing the violin and was instead waiting with his hands clasped behind his back. "Still trying to prove something," he mumbled under his breath as he watched the young teacher step from the cab. John, ever the gentleman, held the door open and carried her bag. The other woman, much older and clearly the mother blushed a thank you. Sherlock smiled in amusement.

Harriet gulped nervously. She could do this. Harriet looked up to the windows of 221B. There was no one there. As she stepped onto that step she felt her heart race. The memory was playing over and over again in her head. The door to 221 Baker Street swung open causing Harriet to jump with fright. There stood in the doorway was Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah John, hello and you must be Mrs Thornton. It is a pleasure to meet you. I can see where Harriet gets her good looks," both Harriet and John stared at the man in complete shock. Harriet's shock was mixed with surprise. John wasn't so surprised; trust Sherlock to pull a move like this.

"Oh and you must be Sherlock, thank you for everything you have done for my daughter," Harriet's mother gushed.

"It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same for such a charming young lady," Harriet blinked at the man. What the hell?

"Come on Mrs Thornton, Mrs Hudson's is down here, shall I put the kettle on?" John ushered Mrs Thornton down the hall eager to get her away from the high functioning sociopath. Harriet had recovered enough to step through the front door. She passed Sherlock without looking at him. A hand on the small on her back caused her to jump again. What was he playing at? The door clicked shut and Harriet allowed Sherlock to lead her down the hall. It gave Harriet some reassurance. This was the man who had helped find her. He was not to be feared. Sherlock removed his hand as they entered Mrs Hudson's. It had stunned Harriet into silence. It didn't fit with his hurtful words at the crime scene.

"Mrs Thornton, I can't believe someone as young as you could have a fully grown daughter," Sherlock gestured for Harriet's mother to sit down.

"I feel sick," Harriet stated and slipped her shoes off.

"Oh Harriet, sorry I forgot you were delicate," her mother flustered, "sit down."

"That wasn't why I was feeling sick," she muttered and sat down. Sherlock eyed Harriet with a slightly smug look.

"I think your sickness is contagious," John had heard her and muttered a reply as he handed her a cup of black coffee with one sugar.

Sherlock monopolised Mary Thornton's attention. He was all charm, sweet smiles and compliments. "Has he taken a bash to the head?" Harriet asked John.

"Not that I'm aware of. He does this when he wants something," John thought of Molly in the pathology lab. "When I left he was in a horrible mood. Couldn't get a word from him as for when I got home last night don't even get me started."

Harriet processed this information. Sherlock Holmes was definitely a character. Her mother always used that word describe someone she didn't really like. The annoyingly obnoxious neighbour that got raucously drunk at a New Year party sprung to mind. "He was a character," her mother had said with distaste over a quiet subdued breakfast the following morning.

"When is Mrs Hudson arriving?" Harriet asked.

"Later this evening, he train gets in at seven," John said.

At the same time Sherlock spoke, "she's not," every pair of eyes looked at him.

"What did you do?" John asked his friend. He was trying to hold back but was finding it very difficult.

"I telephoned her. It seems a shame for her to cut her only visit to her sister this year when Harriet is perfectly capable of house sitting," Harriet was once again possessed by the notion of smashing her mug against his face.

"You are a complete arse," the insult burst from her.

"Harriet! Is that any way to speak to someone who has done something as considerate as save your life?" her mother scolded.

Harriet folded her arms and grumbled to herself, "sorry how silly of me, I should have said insufferable arse."

Sherlock chuckled slightly from across the room, "don't worry Mrs Thornton. It must be the stress off the situation. I hope you will forgive me for suggesting such a thing it's just Mrs Hudson is getting on in her years and won't be able to make it to see her sister as often. You should be proud you have raised such a strong young woman who can recover from such a traumatic event. You were clearly a brilliant parent."

Harriet stood up and left the room. She was fuming. The green bottle of gin caught her eyes. No, the painkillers she had been given for the aching muscles and persistent headache wouldn't agree with alcohol. She opened the fridge and took out a bar of chocolate. Harriet couldn't get it open quick enough. The satisfyingly smooth chocolate did nothing to sooth her frustrated nerves.

John bought in the empty mugs and shared in Harriet's annoyance. "You said he wanted something," she commented

"Yes, although I'm not sure what he wants just yet or even how you fit into things," John set the mugs in the sink.

Sherlock and her mother also entered the small pokey kitchen, there was no escape. "I thought I would fix some lunch," her mother said and opened the fridge, "really Harriet? Ready meals? I thought I taught you better than that." Maybe staying in Baker Street wouldn't be such a bad thing. "I'll have to pop to the shops. You need your energy from proper food and none of this junk."

"I'll come with you Mrs Thornton," John stated, "we're out of milk."

"Oh thank you and your lovely friend can look after Harriet," her mother smiled at the man. 'Oh god,' Harriet thought, 'what is she playing at?'

"It will be my pleasure," Sherlock said. Harriet was sure it would be. He must enjoy tormenting her.

* * *

><p><strong>Harriet is staying! Although I'm sure Sherlock will turn up at her home at somepoint. She only has 11 days left of her house sitting. I really enjoyed writing this chapter but I think that has more to do with the fact I'm sitting in the sunshine, in the garden with sunglasses :D practically summer in that lovely cold English fashion. <strong>

**Gwilwillith- don't worry I have plans for Harriet to yell some more at Sherlock.**

**shedanceswithherpast- I like your idea, might have to store that for later, I'm thinking Moriarty. **

**kie 1993- glad you like the chapter. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

'_**A witty saying proves nothing'**_

**Voltaire**

"Your mother is a lovely woman," Sherlock said as Mrs Thornton and John left.

"You went in without permission!" Harriet had to try very hard not to shout. The door to Mrs Hudson's had closed but she had yet to hear the front door close. She was still fuming that he had been through her underwear. It really didn't matter what Sherlock thought of her mother.

"Yes," the charming demeanour disappeared the moment the door closed.

"Unbelievable!" the door had closed and Harriet's voice raised several decibels.

"Is it really?" Sherlock droned in boredom.

"I didn't invite you in," there was no accusation in Harriet's tone. It was comfort in a familiar territory.

"You weren't here," he retorted.

"Yes well, you would have known that had you bothered to show your face at the hospital. I was planning on thanking you. I take it back now," she childishly folded her arms.

"You were fine," Harriet walked to the bedroom to get away from him, maybe he would take the hint. "Where are you going?" She paused at the door, maybe not.

"Away from you. I would rather have root canal on three teeth than spend another minute in your company," she huffed.

"A witty saying proves nothing Harriet," was that hurt masked beneath that calm velvet voice? No. She had long since come to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes didn't feel anything and nothing he could say or do would change that opinion.

"Yeah well looks like we are both trying to prove something," she opened the door and went into the room closing it behind her. The door didn't close. Something blocked it. Harriet looked down at Sherlock's foot. Maybe she should try closing it again with force. "What is your problem!"

"My problem? You are the one who is incapable of controlling their temper," the foot remained in place but the door opened. Slamming it on his foot was very desirable at that moment.

"Well I have good reason. I spent most of my night tied to a chair in some god forsaken warehouse for reasons I still don't understand. I'm tired. I'm achy. My head hurts. You have just been uncharacteristically nice to my mother to manipulate her into going home tomorrow for reasons I can't fathom. What if I didn't want to stay? Why would I even want to? According to you I lack intelligence and common sense. Well any intelligent person with common sense would know that staying here is ridiculous. So I made a mistake and left the house last night but newsflash Sherlock you aren't in charge of me. I only needed something to help me sleep because you thought that it was perfectly reasonable to kiss someone to prove a point," Harriet's throat was hurting again and she was holding back tears. Why did this well-dressed man drive her to despair? Okay so he looked remarkably good in a purple shirt that was unbuttoned at the top but other than that she couldn't stand him.

"If you go home now it will mean messing Mrs Hudson about, she will have to pack and sort a train again. Do you really want to put her through so much hassle and let her down?" Sherlock stated. It really wasn't the right thing for Sherlock to say.

"Sod off. I'm not letting you manipulate me into something and you were supposed to say sorry," Harriet waited for the apology. There was one.

"I'm not going to apologise because of your poor judgement," if he wasn't going to apologise then why was he still there.

Harriet sighed, the last twenty four hours had traumatic, "Sherlock, please," she all but begged, "I feel disgusting. I want a hot shower. I can still smell the warehouse on me. I can't get any rest knowing that." She kept the fact that every time she closed her eyes she was plunged into a darkness that reminded her of that room to herself.

"You saw the attack as you pulled up outside," he changed the topic.

"How do you know that?" it was another one of those stupid questions.

"I saw from upstairs. You put on a brave face," Sherlock pushed the door open further and stepped close. Harriet felt her pulse quicken.

"Not brave enough apparently," she nervously replied.

"Did you really think you could fool me?" he was proud of this.

"Why would I have to fool you in the first place?" she asked him. This caught Sherlock off guard although he hid it well. Fool him. The idea itself was ridiculous and yet she was desperate enough to try. Why? He was fed up of this woman occupying valuable brain space. Illogically he reached up and lightly traced the bruise left on her neck from the noose. Under his finger he could feel her racing pulse.

"This will fade," was all he said. Harriet already knew that. He withdrew his hand.

John Watson had come to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes was up to something. It didn't take a genius to figure that out. The only time he was ever that charming was when he wanted something. He had wanted Harriet to stay. What John couldn't figure out was why? He and Harriet's mother made their way to the local supermarket. "Sherlock is lovely, just the sort of man Harriet should settle down with," Mrs Thornton had fallen for the lies. John could safely say that Sherlock Holmes was the last person Harriet should settle down with.

"Sherlock is certainly one in a million," at least it wasn't a lie. The statement just had different meanings to the shoppers. John continued down the street listening to Mrs Thornton sing his praises.

"I don't know what to think. Sherlock, you confuse me," Sherlock waited for Harriet to elaborate, "that kiss, you did it to prove something but I don't get it. John said-"

For someone who hated to be interrupted he did an awful lot of it himself, "-he told you I was in a miserable mood last night which I think is being far too generous. It gave the impression that what happened to you didn't matter to me." Sherlock would not tell Harriet how he had struggled against his better judgement last night. If Moriarty was involved Harriet should definitely turn tail and flee to Australia or any other country, the further away the better. Something about her got under Sherlock's skin under his stoic exterior and through the barricades. Most of the people he met had a bad opinion of him, he didn't kiss them to prove otherwise yet Harriet was different. He was impressed that she had worked out he had proved something.

"I wanted you to be there at the hospital," Harriet was close to tears. Her 'I don't need a man' charade had vanished. Sherlock noted the extra moisture in her eyes and the slight reddening. He really could not deal with a crying woman.

"Do you know who Moriarty is?" Harriet didn't know what she was expecting. This certainly was not it. The name had been spoken by Lestrade and now Sherlock. She had never heard of the man before.

"No," her voice was hoarse as she tried to stop the overwhelming situation getting to her. This was something Sherlock admired. He placed his hands on her shoulder and walked her backwards. Her legs collided with the bed and she sat down. He removed his hands and stepped back.

"Moriarty is a dangerous man. It was his men who grabbed you. He is a consulting criminal," it was a hurried explanation.

"Like you?" she interrupted.

"No I am a consulting _detective_," he didn't hide the annoyance at being interrupted.

"Clearly far superior," was she mocking him? No she was struggling this was her default coping mechanism.

"This is serious. This man is responsible for so many deaths and still evades me. He is the napoleon of crime. He is the organiser of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. A few months ago he provided me with a few investigative 'games' knowing I wouldn't be able to resist," Sherlock explained for Harriet's benefit.

"I am lucky to be alive," she realised.

"No. He intended for me to find you. You were never going to die. Harriet this is something very important and this is exactly why you cannot go anywhere alone. Moriarty is aware that I had a momentarily lapse in sanity and kissed you. That is the only explanation for him targeting you,"

"This is," she paused, "difficult to get my head around."

"Your mind is not capable of such high level thinking as mine," Sherlock paced back and forth. Moriarty was at the fore front of his thoughts.

"Yes, thank you show off," Harriet rested her head in her hands. None of this was doing her headache any good.

"It's what I do," he retorted but then stopped to look at Harriet. This was too much for her. Sherlock kneeled down in front of her and pulled her hands away from her face. She looked up at him. "Harriet listen very carefully to what I am saying. James Moriarty is a very dangerous man. He will break you to get to me." Sherlock didn't let go off Harriet's hand. He looked at the dark bruises on her wrists from the wire. Something ignited inside him. Harriet had been hurt. The spark had turned into a raging inferno. Moriarty would pay for this. Sherlock would make sure that it would be at his hands.

"What are you saying?" she figured out that Moriarty was dangerous but what did she really matter in all this. In eleven days she would be returning to her safe normal life to enjoy the rest of the summer holidays before the new school year began.

"I'm saying that you mean something," he didn't elaborate further. The six words were said without emotion or acknowledgement. They were cold empty words that, coming from Sherlock, did not belong in a sentence together.

"I can't deal with this now," Harriet confessed as her eyes finally met his icy blue orbs. Sherlock still had a hold of her hands.

"You have to," his statement was more of a demand.

"No I have to go for a shower," she yanked her hands free and headed for the bathroom. She locked the door and slid down against it. Why had she ever agreed to house sit? She meant something? Meant something to Sherlock? To Moriarty? To both? All questions and no answers. It was better for Harriet not to think of the curious detective. Being abducted was more than enough for her deal with for now. Harriet had bitten off more than she could chew.

The steamy shower soothed her abused muscles and helped clear her mind although only by a fraction. It did nothing to clear her mind. Harriet made sure to stay in the shower until her mother and John had returned. Mrs Hudson's water bill would take a hammering but that was a sacrifice Harriet was willing to make. She didn't have any willpower left to spend any more time with the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes. Her nerves couldn't take it. No words could articulate Sherlock's behaviour.

* * *

><p><strong>So I wasn't going to update again till Friday because I have a horrifically busy week but I've had a terrible day so I decided to hell with marking work and planning and finished this instead. <strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

'_**The obscure we see eventually. The completely obvious, it seems, takes longer'**_

**Edward R Murrow**

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side," Sherlock muttered as he picked apart Mrs Hudson's collection of soppy romance novels. Mills and Boon, what nonsense. He picked up a battered copy of one of the collection from the middle shelf. It was at Mrs Hudson's eyelevel. A favourite. He skimmed the first page, "boring." This twaddle was a waste of his hard drive.

Harriet was still in the shower. She was alive. That was important. Sherlock had made two crucial mistakes. His first was in thinking she would listen to his request to remain in the house but in all honesty if they wanted Harriet they would have found a way inside. His second mistake had been that kiss. It should never have happened. He should never have allowed himself to suffer that contagious sentiment that humans suffer. Sherlock Holmes was above that.

As Harriet laid in one those uncomfortable itchy hospital beds Sherlock had climbed the walls inside his head. Why hadn't he realised sooner that Moriarty was involved? He was playing a dangerous game with the man and every time Moriarty came out on top. It irked him to no end. One day though he would get the upper hand. Moriarty would be finished whether Harriet was involved or not. He would not allow himself to care for the young woman. That would be easiest.

Oh the drugs they had been tempting. His mind needed the rest provide by the rush of escape. Mrs Hudson had taken his last packet of cigarettes with her and he had used the last of his nicotine patches. His violin was the only other alternative. Sherlock tried not to picture her bruised neck and raw wrists. She had been distraught when they found her. It was his fault she had given up all hope. All because for one brief moment he allowed sentiment to get in the way. Now she had been marked by Moriarty. It couldn't be denied and it certainly couldn't be swept under the rug. Her return home would mean nothing. Moriarty would not only try but he would succeed in breaking her. This thought alone ignited something Sherlock had been successful in repressing for so long. It was _sentiment_. Such a horrible word.

Sherlock waited for morning with nothing but his violin for company. It was not a very good distraction. The house sitter crept up on him like a shadow and seeped into his conscious. It was detestable. He winced at the sound his violin made as his thoughts strayed in that direction. It was a good job John had learnt to sleep through the noise.

The violin had been placed on the table. A new distraction was needed. If he couldn't get the teacher from his thoughts then he could at least use her to his advantage. That was more normal behaviour. Sherlock disappeared down to Mrs Hudson's flat. Even with the light off in the hall he knew where to find the spare key. It was sellotaped to the back of a hideous painting above the chair in the hall. He stepped into the flat. Harriet would hate this.

He flicked on the light and walked through to Mrs Hudson's bedroom. Sherlock had only ever been here once before and that had been more than enough. The walls were floral, the bed was floral, and the lining of the draws was floral and smelt of lavender. His nose tingled at the memory. His destination wasn't the draws this time but Harriet's bulging suitcase on the floor.

A maroon colour and very battered. Well-travelled. Harriet had spent a substantial amount of time abroad. He looked at the luggage tags that had not been removed, Hawaii. It had been a while ago though. Four years and forty six days ago. Harriet's clothes were unfolded and tossed in a heap on top of the case. Odd socks, Sherlock noted. Not a single pair in the case.

Sherlock could not pinpoint the moment that rifling through Harriet's case shifted from further deducing to a caring consideration of packing a bag for the hospital. It had just happened. He looked across at the bed where Harriet had discarded her pyjamas before she'd gone out for the Nytol. Those ridiculous owls again. He folded them neatly and placed them in the bag. She would be coming home tomorrow and would have no use for them yet they went in the bag anyway. They would now forever be associated with Harriet Thornton in his mind. The mental image of her standing shocked in the kitchen of 221B bought a sad smile to Sherlock's face. This was quickly replaced with his normal stoic mask. Sentiment was creeping up on him again.

Without realising what he had done Sherlock had taken the bag of overnight things and placed them on the table upstairs. John would have a field day with this. Sherlock resumed his violin playing and let his thoughts dwell on Harriet. It was like his mind was addicted and, try as he might, he could not shift the addiction. He wouldn't cave into the niggling addiction and go to the hospital.

When Sherlock heard the arrival of the taxi he had gone straight for the window. He had to see Harriet. Whilst she looked fine he could tell from her hunched shoulders, head cast down and rigid movements that she was far from it. She did not have the ability to remove emotion and trauma that he had. His eyes fell on the woman beside her. Fifties. Fifty six. Elasticated trousers and hideous floral top. Definitely a mother. Harriet's mother. Same bone structure. Manicured nails. Retired. No. The money had to come from somewhere. Divorce settlement. No wedding ring. Sherlock could continue his deductions but his attention was far more devoted to Harriet.

Sherlock had all night to think through his next course of action. If Moriarty was involved then Harriet should stay. She would be safer with him but Sherlock knew she had a job and a home that she would want to return to. It was this that meant his reasons for keeping her around were entirely selfish. It puzzled him that she should spend so much time occupying valuable thinking space. He had yet to figure out why. Something else to solve.

His plan of action was simple. He'd already phoned Mrs Hudson to say don't bother coming home. Now he had to charm Harriet's mother. All any mother wanted was to see their daughter settle down, any mother except his own, he would be that perfect someone. It was another disguise, one he knew he could pull off. John would not approve and neither would Harriet not that it mattered so much in the grand scheme.

Sherlock disappeared from the window and went downstairs taking on the role of perfect gentleman. It had been plain as day to Sherlock that Harriet's mind had flashed back to the abduction some twenty four hours ago. An unfamiliar emotion possessed him. Instinctively he reached out and placed a reassuring hand on the small of her back. There was no time to dwell on it as Mrs Thornton claimed his attention once again. The woman grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard despite this it was a sacrifice he had to make.

With Harriet in the shower and the poor excuses for literature being an inadequate distraction Sherlock dissected the alien emotion that had possessed him. Protection had surged through him like a tsunami destroying the barriers he had worked hard to build again. It was unnatural. His behaviour in the bedroom wasn't even worth thinking about. He's allowed himself to be pulled into the trap of sentiment. A far greater foe than Moriarty. Without hesitation he had taken hold of her hands and thought for a second that he might lose all control for the second time and kiss her. Thank fully he dodged that bullet. Those hands. Smooth skin. Perfect.

When she finally had the courage to look at him he had been rewarded with those beautiful eyes. Sentiment was just a view, an attitude, based on emotion not reason. All reason had gone out the window leaving behind the sentiment he despised and yet welcomed.

Sherlock noted his quickened pulse and flutter of apprehension as he stepped closer to her. He had to be near her. Harriet Thornton was intoxicating. She wasn't perfect like a case involving a serial killer but she was close. The idea of comparing Harriet to the enjoyment of a case was ridiculous. It should never happen.

John and Mrs Thornton returned. Sherlock and John left upstairs after Sherlock

"You are unbelievable, you know that Sherlock," John called from the kitchen where he was putting the shopping away, between the body parts in the fridge.

"Shhhh, thinking," Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa. He had exchanged his suit jacket for a maroon silk dressing gown.

"Sherlock, you can talk to me if, you know, you need to," John took a break from putting away the shopping.

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock retorted.

"Yes, why would you?" John went back to unpacking the shopping with a shake of his head. In all the time he had known Sherlock John Watson had never known him to have a relationship of any sort. There had been Irene Adler, the woman. Love is a dangerous disadvantage; Irene Adler had shown Sherlock that. She had just been playing the game. The game with Moriarty. Harriet Thornton, on the other hand, had stirred something in the consultant detective. Something that had remained dormant like an ancient volcano.

"Oh Sherlock is lovely," Harriet's mother said.

'Some one tie me to air chair again, please' Harriet muttered so herself, Sherlock Holmes was not lovely. She was curled up on Mrs Hudson's floral settee with a glass of water. Her mother refused her a glass of wine. After the afternoons conversation with Sherlock water just wasn't going to cut it. Mary Thornton was busying herself with fixing a meal and could not stop signing Sherlock's praises. She had been blinded by the genius detective much to Harriet's dismay.

"You should be grateful to him for his help, such a charming young man," her mother chatted away. She may as well have been talking to herself.

'He's an arse,' once again Harriet muttered to herself.

"Oh Harriet, it really isn't ladylike to grumble like that, No man will ever look at you if you do that," her mother fussed over the stack of books and magazines that Harriet had abandoned on Mrs Hudson's coffee table. She had nowhere to set down the tray.

"I can live without the male species," Harriet was no feminist. The whole thought of burning her bra disgusted her yet despite this she fought hard to prove that she didn't need her man. Unfortunately her mother was not of the same school of thought.

Her mother ignored her negative daughter, "we should ask them to join us for a drink later. As a proper thank you."

"I'm tired mum," she yawned for effect. If Sherlock could act then so could she.

"Well make sure you do something as a thank you," her mother had always been a stickler for decent manners.

Harriet had an early night and slept through till morning. It was a great improvement on the hospital bed the night before. She was far too tired to pay any attention to any noises that may disturb her sleep. Thankfully the upstairs flat was abnormally quiet.

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><p><strong>Okay so I tried to delve into Sherlock's mind, easier said than done. Thanks to Gwilwillith and kie 1993 for their lovely reviews :D<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12  
><strong>

'_**The superior man acts before he speaks, and afterwards speaks according to his action'**_

**Confucius**

Harriet's mother departed at lunch time the following day. She waved from the window of the taxi. Harriet had offered to go with her mother to the station but she had insisted that Harriet stay home and rest. Harriet was getting fed up of not being able to do anything for herself and although she would never admit it to anyone she was glad of the peace that her mother's departure bought. If she heard any more soppy praises of Sherlock she swore she would vomit.

Harriet waved back and headed in doors. Standing on the doorstep alone wasn't something she could handle. The feeling of the abductors arms and the smell of chloroform crept back. The street was crowded; Harriet was not going to be abducted again.

Sherlock silently descended the stairs with the mother gone it was now safe to leave the flat. She seemed to deliberately seek him out for the duration of her brief stay. Sherlock Holmes did not do social visits. Especially not with fussy mothers. His own mother had never been fussy. She was never around long enough to be fussy.

Harriet had been too absorbed in her farewell and the flashbacks to notice the smartly dressed Sherlock descending the stairs and walk towards the door that she collided with him. Sherlock had seen Harriet. She had hesitated at the door again. He could have stopped and warned her of his presence but this was Sherlock when was anything ever easy with him?

"Sorry," she mumbled. It was either Sherlock or John, the possibility of it being the latter was very low. A fire blazed beneath her skin as her cheeks blushed, why she couldn't be as observant as the consultant detective it really wasn't much to ask for.

Sherlock had used the collision as an excuse to touch Harriet. It was an experiment he'd been meaning to try. He reached out to steady Harriet who was staring up at him in surprise. What was it exactly that made him act in such an obscene way?

"Only idiots are this unobservant," he stated. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Right, sorry," she said absently. His hands still rested on Harriet's upper arms.

"Your mother has gone," he observed. It wouldn't be his wisest decision to say that he was glad.

"I'm glad," Harriet's eyes widened as she realised what she'd said. A smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. Her eyes flicked to those pale hands lightly gripping her arm.

"On your way out?" Harriet asked it took a huge effort to keep her voice steady.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Oh. See you later then," Harriet side stepped Sherlock, she couldn't get to Mrs Hudson's quick enough. Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets. Interesting.

Harriet didn't venture from the flat again that day. She kept the curtains closed and slept on the sofa between long bouts of staring at the television. Jeremy Kyle and Loose Women was still rubbish. Her only other choice was Homes Under The Hammer and Bargain Hunt. Tomorrow she would get back out in the world and way from the day time dribble.

She snoozed lightly on the cramped two-seater sofa; her neck was starting to feel stiff. With a heavy sigh Harriet stirred in her sleep. A soft knocking interrupted her slumber. To Harriet it sounded a million miles away. Her eyes fluttered shut once more.

John Watson set his broadsheet newspaper down and went downstairs to get the front door. Whoever it was had knocked several times. Sherlock never answered the door and Mrs Hudson was away. Harriet had probably gone out and John suspected she wouldn't feel comfortable opening it.

"Mycroft," John greeted in surprise, "come in." Sherlock's brother went straight upstairs with his umbrella still in his hand. John followed wondering what Sherlock had done this time.

"Is my brother in? No," Mycroft answered the question himself. It unnerved John how both Holmes brother's had a knack for mind reading.

"Need something Mycroft?" John closed the door.

"Yes. My brother has taken a keen interest in Miss Thornton downstairs," John's eyes widened in surprise. Had he misheard Mycroft? "No, John, you did not miss hear me."

"Right. Okay. Well," John wasn't quite sure what to say. The only reason Sherlock ever had for taking an interest in someone was a case or if he wanted something. John was the only exception. John looked to heavens in thanks as the door to 221B swung open and Sherlock sauntered in. This was of those occasions where he was glad of Sherlock's interruption.

"Mycroft, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You didn't expect me not to show an interest when something has captured my brother's interest?"

"The case is over," Sherlock answered.

"We both know I wasn't referring to the case. No, the charming young woman that has caught the eye of the great Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft watched his brother carefully.

"Don't you have a country to run?" Sherlock was bored of the conversation. He did not do trivial chit chat least of all that involving women.

"Caring is not an advantage, dear brother," Mycroft had said this to him before. John felt like a spare part between the two brothers. He could tell from looking at Sherlock that his brother's intrusion was unwelcome but then when was it ever welcome.

"Your girlfriend," Mycroft began.

"Girlfriends aren't really my area," Sherlock interrupted and turned around abruptly leaving the room. This was utterly ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes did not have girlfriends. His interest in Harriet was not something he was willing to divulge least of all with his brother.

"Oh come now Sherlock," Mycroft called after his retreating brother, "I'd watch out for her if I was you."

Sherlock's bedroom door slammed. He paced back and forth. His brother was not high on his list of priorities. No his number one priority was Harriet. He stopped his pacing. Had he really just thought that? His number one priority was Moriarty and not some silly woman.

John raised his eyebrows at Mycroft, "good day, John." Mycroft let himself out. John left Sherlock to stew.

Sherlock's experiment had been an interesting one. He had set out to confirm his suspicions that his body produced a number of unusual chemical reactions as a result of the infernal woman downstairs. When he set eyes on her his heart rate sped up. When she spoke his body was filled with increased levels of dopamine, norepinephrine and serotonin. Sherlock was already familiar with the effects of serotonin. It was responsible for obsessive-compulsive disorder. He already had an infatuation with cases. His marriage to his work provided him with all the serotonin he needed.

Then there was the role of the limbic system. It was a theory that the nervous system was not self-contained but attuned to those around and close to us as people. Empathy or rather limbic resonance. Sherlock had read that limbic resonance was something that humans shared with all other mammals. As a high functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes had very little in common with other humans let alone other mammals. It was an insult to be compared to other males let alone another mammal.

When Sherlock had reached out to touch Harriet a whole new range of reactions occurred. Not even fresh air once Harriet returned to Mrs Hudson's flat was enough to clear his mind. Whatever the reactions were he had to get rid of them. The chemistry was simple yet distractive. Nicotine. He needed nicotine. Sherlock pulled open his sock draw. Gone. He lifted his mattress. Gone. His gaze fell on the box on his dresser. Nicotine patches would have to do. He pulled out two and stuck them haphazardly to his left forearm then fell back onto his bed.

Sherlock's reaction had been very interesting to John. Normally Sherlock took great pleasure in getting the last word in where Mycroft was concerned but this time Mycroft had come out on top. He had got under Sherlock's skin. If it wasn't such a delicate matter John would have enjoyed pointing this out to the detective.

Harriet awoke as the five o'clock news started. It took her moment or two to come round. She got up and headed to the kitchen. At least her mother had left her with some leftovers to reheat and there was still one ready meal tucked away in the freezer. As she tucked into her slightly burnt casserole the doorbell to 221 Baker Street rang.

Sherlock strode from his room with purpose, "Lestrade." John also perked up at the announcement of Lestrade's arrival. Another case. He got up and went down to open the door. Just because Sherlock left his room didn't mean he would answer the door.

"Ah John," Lestrade steeped over the threshold.

"Go on up," John closed the door.

"Actually I'm her to see Harriet Thornton."

"Oh, okay. Follow me," John led Lestrade down the hall to Mrs Hudson's door and knocked.

Harriet paused with a fork full of food halfway to her mouth. That was her door. The only two people who ever knocked on that door were Sherlock and John but the doorbell on the front door had been rung. She couldn't answer the door. It could be anyone. Sherlock had warned her of Moriarty. What if it was him?

Quietly she set her bowl down. She would pretend to be out. Oh but the television was on. The person knocked again, "Harriet its John." She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

There wasn't time for her to change. Once her mother had left Harriet had changed into a ratty pair of tracksuit bottoms and an old hooded top. Harriet stood up and pulled her sleeves down over her wrists and pulled the hood of her jumper close to her neck.

"Hello, oh," she hadn't expected John to be with anyone. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Sorry for the intrusion Miss Thornton. I thought this visit would be better in person," Harriet stepped aside to let the two men in.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" Harriet's mother nagged her in the back of her mind.

"No, it's fine," Lestrade stood with his hands in his pockets.

"Lestrade," Sherlock walked into Mrs Hudson's flat, "I'm deeply wounded that you are not here to pay me a visit. No case?"

"Sherlock was wondering when you'd show your face," Lestrade greeted. No response. "Miss Thornton there will be a court case. Your presence is required."

"You didn't need to come here to tell her that," John observed.

"No. I didn't. Miss Thornton do you know who James Moriarty is?" Lestrade asked.

Harriet looked at Sherlock for help. He remained quiet, "Y-yes."

"Oh right. Did John explain everything?" the purpose of Lestrade's visit had been nullified.

"No. Sherlock did," she answered.

"Right well if he is behind this and," Lestrade glanced at the inscrutable detective, "we are almost certain he is then it would be advisable that you do not go anywhere alone."

"Do I have to stay in London?" Harriet asked. Wasn't that what they usually asked in the movies? Not to leave town or anything like that. Sherlock's attention was grabbed by Harriet's comment. He'd just deployed tactics so she remained and now she was leaving.

Lestrade chuckled, "no. You are fine to return to," he paused not having the case notes with him.

"Gloucester," Harriet supplied.

"Right Gloucester. You just need to be around for the court case," Lestrade explained. He had come with the intention of ensuring that Harriet was aware of the sensitive position she was in. Moriarty was not to be underestimated. Sherlock had beaten him to his explanation.

Harriet asked him how long he thought it would take for them to catch up with Moriarty. Lestrade had no answer but assured her they were doing their best to stop him. Sherlock scoffed at the explanation. "Your idiotic monkeys won't ever come close to stopping Moriarty," he couldn't help himself. Lestrade ignored the jibe and excused himself leaving John and Sherlock with Harriet.

"You can't eat this?" Sherlock picked up the spoon she'd left him her dinner, it stood upright in the stodgy mess.

"Well I am," she picked up the bowl feeling defensive of her poor attempt at reheating leftovers that had now gone cold. She stubbornly spooned some into her mouth.

"I'll leave you to it," John went back upstairs. Sherlock probably wouldn't notice he was gone. If Sherlock could experiment then so could John. He wanted to see what the consultant detective would do.

Sherlock lips quirked into a smile "go and put on the only decent and ironed piece of clothing in your suitcase."

"No," Harriet ate another mouthful of the cold casserole.

"The dress in question is at the bottom of the suitcase, left hand side," Sherlock told her.

Harriet sighed, "I don't want to go anywhere."

Sherlock eyed the young woman. Nerves. Heightened pulse and dilated pupils but not the same reactions she usually had around him. This had been bought on by the mention of leaving Baker Street but she had been outside earlier. What was different? Moriarty had been bought up again. That wasn't it. Sherlock looked to the clock on the wall. It was getting dark outside. Harriet Thornton did not want to go outside at night.

"Get dressed Harriet or I will drag you out as you are," Sherlock threatened.

"I'm fine with that," she stated.

Sherlock eyed her up and down. Harriet felt naked. "You do not wish to go outside at night because of your abduction. The dress I can assure you will look most aesthetically pleasing to your figure. Those bruises on your wrists can be covered. There is a cardigan on the back of the chair. Put that on." Aesthetically pleasing? Was that a compliment from Sherlock or was he just being Sherlock?

Harriet cursed herself for leaving Sherlock and getting changed. If it had been a child in one of her classes she never would have backed down but this was Sherlock Holmes things were entirely different. John's words came to mind, "go with him, it's easier than protesting." Harriet took the dress out of her suitcase. No she wouldn't wear that. The bruises on her ankles would still be visible. Harriet settled for tights, a navy blue pencil skirt and a long sleeved white shirt. It wasn't the dress but it wasn't the scruffy clothes she'd had on before either. Harriet smoothed out the creases in the shirt and snatched up the cardigan. She was not wearing a dress because Sherlock Holmes said she should and least of all because he said it would look aesthetically pleasing to her figure.

"That wasn't what I said to wear," Sherlock commented.

"Yeah well, it's my choice," she shrugged on the cardigan just to be sure no one could see the bruises. She stormed past Sherlock and slipped her feet into shoes opening the door. Harriet was determined not to let Sherlock get to her. If he was dragging her away from the leftovers then he was damn well going to pay. "Hurry up. I'm in the mood for lobster," she was deliberately out to be annoying.

"Stop being childish. You don't like lobster," Sherlock put his hands safely into his pockets and followed Harriet out. Again she stopped at the front door and again she was visited by flashbacks. Sherlock was already standing outside waiting for her.

"Miss Thornton I do not have all day," his voice was laced with cold. Harriet took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. She had to walk quickly to keep up with the long-legged detective.

"Where are we going?" she asked once they reached the street corner.

"Chinese," he answered.

"How do you know I don't like lobster?" Harriet couldn't remember ever mentioning it to him.

"You don't want to leave the flat. To be difficult you chose the most expensive food just to prove a point," he deduced.

A rattling van drove down the street they were walking down. Harriet visibly stiffened. Sherlock cast his eyes sideways but didn't say anything. The burning anger returned. this was Moriarty's fault. Sherlock and Harriet walked to the Chinese in silence.

"Ah Mr Holmes back again. Solved the case early this time I see," the elderly Chinese gentleman greeted the detective at the door. This was his and John's usual post case haunt. He had lost count the number of times he would set foot in the Chinese in the early hours of the morning.

"No case tonight Mr Lui," Sherlock replied. Mr Lui showed Sherlock and Harriet to a table in the corner. From where they were sat Sherlock could see everyone who entered and left the Chinese. Harriet sat with her back to the door.

"Sherlock what are we doing here?" she asked getting straight to the point.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied.

"No. It's not," she flicked her glance from the menu and to Sherlock. He was watching her not even sparing a glance to his own menu.

Mr Lui arrived to take their order, "glass of water, a small white wine and two Szechuan Chicken's please Mr Lui." Sherlock ordered for Harriet.

"I can order myself," she refrained from adding insufferable arse.

"Was I wrong?" he challenged?

"No," she replied. A triumphant smile spread across his face.

Mr Lui bought over the drinks. Harriet reached for her wine. Her sleeve revealed the bruises on her wrist. She instantly withdrew her arm and pulled her sleeve down before reaching for her drink again. If she was going to survive dinner with Sherlock then she needed that wine.

Sherlock watched Harriet. The bruises had now gone a dark shade of purple. He reached across the table and closed his hands around Harriet's wrist. Her breath hitched. His grip was gentle as he pushed back her sleeve. "Sh-Sherlock," her voice faltered. There was intensity in his eyes as he observed the damage. Harriet pulled her hand back, pulled the sleeve down and placed it onto her lap out of sight.

Sherlock looked away from Harriet towards the door, "It seems that you have equally the same chemical reactions."

Harriet frowned, "to what?"

"Love is a disadvantage found on the losing side," he looked back at Harriet with cold eyes. She was confused. How could he boarder on affection one moment and be like ice the next?

Harriet had enough of his cryptic statements, "What is this about?" Mr Lui chose that moment to place two steaming plates of food down in front of them. The pair ate in silence. Harriet hadn't realised how hungry she was until she took the first mouthful. Sherlock had been right she couldn't eat those leftovers.

The plates were cleared and fortune cookies placed on the table. Sherlock let Harriet open hers, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step," he knew what it would say before she said.

"How do you do that?" she munched on the fortune cookie. He didn't answer her but instead had a smug look upon his face. "Go on then," she picked up his fortune cookie but didn't open it.

"Funny thing about humility. Just when you think you've got it, you've lost it," he predicted. Harriet opened the cookie and ate that one too. The smart arse deserved it.

"You could learn something from that fortune," she grinned.

"Is he predicting fortunes again?" Mr Lui bought over the bill and laughed. Sherlock gave a witty reply and paid the bill.

"Thank you for dinner," Harriet said once they were outside.

"I was starving and that rubbish your mother cooked was not edible," he shoved his hands back into his pockets.

"My mother's cooking is fine," she defended.

"Then it is your own inability to use a microwave that is below par," he said with an aloofness.

"Don't spoil it. You can easily go back to being an arse," she barged past him and back up the street. Sherlock fell into step behind her as they walked home.

Harriet stopped on the doorstep once again. Sherlock sighed behind her. "You are being ridiculous,"

"And now you are back to being an arse," she didn't move.

Sherlock unlocked the door and turned back to look at Harriet. With a resigned sigh he held out his hand. "If you chose to stand there all night then you will freeze." Without saying anything Harriet took the hand and followed Sherlock into 221 Baker Street. His hand had been reassuring. The moment her hand made contact with his the replay of her abduction vanished. Instead all she could see was the curly haired indifferent detective. His grip was firm and calming.

Harriet kept looking at their joined hands. Why couldn't she take her hand back? "I-I'm sorry," she stumbled with an apology, "it will pass. I'll get over it."

"You don't need to apologise," he stated. His voice was low and quiet.

Sherlock was dangerously close to Harriet. She could feel the heat of his body as he stepped closer. "Why did you take me out to dinner?" the question came out as a barely audible whisper.

"Isn't it obvious," he said for the second time that night. Something once again possessed Sherlock. His actions were no longer his own.

"No," Harriet breathed and took a small step closer. Her body was inches away from his. Their hands still clasped. Sherlock lifted his free hand and with a long slender finger tilted her chin and bought his lips down to meet hers. There was no chaste kiss this time. Instead a fire had been ignited between the two. Harriet let go of his hand and reached up to grab his shirt pulling him closer. Sherlock responded like any other male. He pushed her up against the wall. Harriet let out a soft gasp. Every fibre in her mind told her this was a bad idea yet her body was screaming at her to ignore common sense. To Harriet it was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Her fiancé had never kissed her with such intensity.

Her gasp was all the encouragement Sherlock needed to realise that this ridiculous display of affection was what he had been craving. He caved in to Harriet just as easily as he did with the drugs. Sherlock's mind was not still as he kissed Harriet. He was treating her like a puzzle. Harriet would respond a certain way to his movements. He especially liked that she smiled into the kiss when his thumb brushed her cheek. Sherlock stepped back from Harriet. His mind had finally caught up and established that those annoying male hormones were taking control, "good night, Harriet."

Harriet leant back against the wall, his abrupt departure caught her by surprise, "yes, good night," She replied on autopilot. Her mind was elsewhere. It took a great effort to steady herself. With jelly like legs she smiled to herself and went to open Mrs Hudson's door.

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><p><strong>Alright so as an end to my busy week before it all starts again tomorrow here's a long chapter :D Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. <strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

'_**In an argument; men use reason and never have enough. Women use emotion and always have too much'**_

_**Unknown**_

"You took Harriet on a date" John couldn't believe he was asking the question. He had expected the pair to argue and for Sherlock to return upstairs in a sulk.

"I did not take Harriet on a date," Sherlock snapped.

"Okay. So what was it then?" John had to fight very hard to keep the smile from spreading on his face. If Sherlock continued this charade any longer his smile would turn into a laugh which would be a bit not good. Laughing at Sherlock was a one way ticket to being ignored. John thought about it for a moment. Perhaps silence from Sherlock would be a good thing.

"An experiment," Sherlock disappeared to his bedroom.

"An experiment?" John prompted once Sherlock returned in one of his silk dressing gowns. This particular one was a rich aubergine colour.

Sherlock sighed, "Yes it's what I do. I have a website."

"You might get a few more hits if you mention the great Sherlock Holmes goes on dates," John's comment was met with a burning stare.

"I'm not putting that dribble on my website," Sherlock flopped down into his favourite chair.

"So it was a date?" John was trying to outsmart Sherlock.

"Experiment," Sherlock answered back.

"Alright so it was an experiment. What findings do you have to report?" sometimes talking to Sherlock was like talking with a child. A very intelligent smart arse child.

There was no answer from Sherlock. John was getting the silent treatment.

"How is your current experiment going?" John changed tactic and looked at the pile of stinking shoes that sat on the kitchen table, "How many ways can soil stick to a shoe now, thirty eight was it?"

"Only thirty seven," he was being his typical pedantic self, "you would know if you looked at my website."

At least the silent treatment hadn't lasted long this time. John had learnt quite early on in their friendship that it was best not to rush some things with Sherlock. This was one of those occasions. John got up and made himself a tea; he poured one for Sherlock and set it down on the desk. It gave John enough time to think up his next line of enquiry.

"How are Harriet's bruises?" John went into doctor mode.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend. He was not going let this lie. "She keeps them hidden. Purple in colour. Tender. Healing," Sherlock enumerated in response. John nodded. He had a genuine concern for the young woman and was glad to see that she was going to be fine. "Emotional trauma," Sherlock added as an afterthought.

"Well would you be perfectly all right after being tied to a chair with the prospect of death hanging over you?" John asked his friend but then thought better of it, "no, don't answer that. You would be fine."

"I would have bruises," Sherlock confirmed.

"Maybe you could be a little less like yourself around Harriet, she is still delicate," not that Sherlock ever listened to John's advice.

Sherlock smiled behind the newspaper he was reading. There was nothing delicate in their kiss.

"Right," John cast his attention back towards his laptop and fell into silent thought, "Nope, sorry Sherlock but that was not an experiment. It was a date." John was fed up of beating around the bush.

Sherlock scoffed. That was not a date.

"Where did you go?" John interrogated.

"Chinese," Sherlock lifted the newspaper higher so his face was completely hidden.

"Good meal?"

"Yes."

Harriet spent the rest of her evening in a daze. She paid no attention to the ten o'clock news and neither did she clear up the bowl of leftovers still sitting on the coffee table. "Isn't it obvious," she repeated to herself. No. Not it wasn't. Not to her and probably not to anyone else who was fortunate enough to belong to the average population? It was only obvious to insufferable arses.

Sherlock Holmes was different. Harriet spent hours puzzling over his perplexing personality. She didn't dwell on the break-up with her fiancé; she didn't spare him a second thought. Even the abduction had slipped from the grip of her mind to be replaced by the conundrum that is Sherlock Holmes. By the time she went to bed she still had no answer. His behaviour had been almost pleasant over dinner. It earned him the denomination from insufferable arse to just plain arse. In fact she wasn't even sure he was an arse anymore. The gesture of his hand had been a comfort as she entered 221 Baker Street. It had crossed her mind that it hadn't been meant and was simply his way of hurrying her up. God forbid Sherlock Holmes should be kept waiting because of a woman. Then there was that kiss. There wasn't a word in Harriet's vocabulary that could describe it not when her brain had been turned to mush.

A chime interrupted her thoughts. It took a moment for her brain to catch up and realise it was her phone. This was followed by a mad panic as she realised it wasn't where she had left it. Harriet jammed her hand down the side of the settee. The phone had slipped off the arm of the chair and vanished in the abyss of floral cushions.

_1 missed call._

Her mother. That could wait.

_1 new text._

The text had her attention. It wasn't her mother. She didn't know how to text.

_From: Unknown number._

Anxiety erupted in Harriet. What if it was this Moriarty bloke that she had been warned about? No. Couldn't be. Could it?

_Don't be idiotic enough to go out for a sleeping aid tonight. SH_

Oh.

Harriet had to read the text several times through for it to register. What an arse, Harriet smiled to herself and typed a reply.

_Don't be idiotic enough to wake me up in the middle of the night. HT_

Sherlock Holmes would probably now go out of his way to make as much noise as he possibly could in the early hours of the morning. Sure enough it started the moment after her text was sent. The sounds of his esteemed violin drifted from above.

_The Nytol is on the side in the bathroom. SH_

Harriet smiled at his text; of course he would know where she had moved it to. Lying under the soft cotton sheets Harriet replayed her evening over and over again. She was unaware of the broad smile on her face. Every one of her respectable conventions was cast aside by the consultant detective.

The violin ceased its melody at midnight. Harriet had long since drifted off to sleep. Sherlock looked at John asleep in his chair, head resting on his hand. It had been a battle of wills and Sherlock had won. There would be no more discussion of the woman that had become so alluring to the detective.

John woke up in the early hours of the morning in the dark living room with a stiff neck. Sherlock had disappeared. Grumbling to himself John stepped over the bagged object on the floor and went to his room. He didn't even bother to look at what was in the bag. It was better not to know sometimes. He got up and left early to do a shift at the surgery. The busy day would be a welcome break from Sherlock.

Sherlock was left home alone. Oh he had his dirt covered shoes to pick apart but they weren't exciting enough. A case would be exciting but for the first time in a long time it was not what Sherlock craved most. What he craved was another chance to experiment. Not on shoes but on his bodies response to Mrs Hudson's replacement.

Sherlock lay back on the sofa. Today's choice of dressing gown was his second favourite navy blue one. It creased as he flopped unceremoniously onto the settee. Sherlock, with his hands pressed together resting on his chin, was plotting. He needed a cure for his boredom. His problem wasn't in finding the cure it was getting the cure out of Mrs Hudson's flat up the stairs and into 221B.

Harriet had the prospect of a lethargic morning to look forward to. Her sleep had been interruption free and she had slept in. Her muscles protested at the wake up. A hot shower soon sorted that. The bruises on her wrists and ankles had faded slightly in the night. They were still there though. Harriet trialled wearing her watch. By the time she got to the kitchen to make breakfast she had discarded it, the pain being too much to bare. She had nothing to do. Her day would be spent watching those debilitating daytime television shows. Harriet's only options for company were Sherlock and John. She wasn't sure how to deal with Sherlock and John was working.

Sherlock sprung to his feet. A plan had begun to take shape in his mind. He opened the door to 221B so he could hear the front door clearly. The post would be arriving soon. Utility companies were always incessantly nagging the inhabitants with bills. A day never went by without someone demanding something. With the door open he lazily spread out on the settee once again.

The letterbox rattled. Paper brushed together. Letters heaped onto the floor with an echoing slap against the tiles. With his eyes closed and hands pressed together resting on his chin Sherlock smiled.

"Mrs Hudson!" he yelled. His deep voice carried down the stairs. He knew she wasn't there. "Mrs Hudson! The post!" He left a pause. "Mrs Hudson!"

Mrs Hudson's door was yanked open clattering against the wall. Harriet stomped up the stairs and barged straight through the open door of 221B, "Are you seriously expecting me to get the post?"

"No I expect Mrs Hudson," he remained on the sofa, his lassitude obvious.

Harriet put her hands on her hips, "You know full well that Mrs Hudson is not here." He remained silent. Harriet wondered if he had gone to sleep but he hadn't. "This place is filthy," she remarked her attention now falling on the abandoned empty mug of tea that had grown a layer of scum. It was half buried underneath a stack of crumpled week old newspapers.

"Yes, it appears Mrs Hudson is not here," Sherlock spoke quietly. It had been loud enough for Harriet to hear. Harriet picked up the mug and set it in the sink in the kitchen. When she glanced up from the sink she realised the kitchen was far worse than the living room.

"Do you have plans for the day?" Sherlock had got up from the settee and joined her in the kitchen. He was stood directly behind her. His breath was warm on her neck. "Change them." Harriet didn't have any plans she was taking Lestrade's advice after the last time she went out alone. Sherlock was not the type to chaperone and John was at work so she was stuck in Baker Street for the day.

Harriet wiped her hands on her long sleeved top; she still couldn't stand to look at the bruises. She turned around and was face to face with Sherlock. All her annoyance dissipated as she met with those glacial eyes. The insufferable arse was doing this deliberately. He leaned in and kissed her cheek before flouncing back into the living room leaving a flustered Harriet at the sink. She turned around and filled the sink with water.

Sherlock got to his feet, "Dust is eloquent," he ran his index finger along the shelf and rubbed it together with his thumb. Harriet had washed all the dishes, scrubbed the worktops, taken out the rubbish, hovered and dusted. If she was stuck spending the day with Sherlock then she was going to do it in a clean flat. One trip to hospital was more than enough for Harriet. She was in no hurry to return because of 221B the health hazard. "I thought you'd do a more thorough job?" the cheek of the insufferable arse.

"I'm not that tall, who actually looks up there?" Harriet challenged.

"I do," he countered.

"Of course you do," she muttered to herself as she put away the duster.

"I am a very observant person Miss Thornton," Harriet didn't need to be told this.

"Well you can clean it then," Harriet threw down the dust rag with a heavy sigh.

"I wouldn't need to if you weren't so incompetent in your cleaning," he made a disparaging comment. Sherlock had been fighting the urge to take Harriet by the hand and drag her into his bedroom all morning. It was an animalistic need that he was not going to indulge. It had chipped away at him as he watched the agile teacher clean. The man she had been attached to played tennis. Harriet would have joined him. It explained the way her curves were perfectly shaped something Sherlock appreciated. His experiment was in tatters. He was completely biased in favour of Harriet. That hadn't stopped him from spoiling his interaction, for want of a better word, with Harriet. What was he supposed to do with his newly discovered realisation that this was no longer an experiment but a pursuit of his own selfish desires? John would know what to do. The only thing Sherlock understood was that he had managed to piss Harriet off.

"Most people say thank you," Harriet went back to Mrs Hudson's deliberately leaving the door to 221B open. If he wanted it closed then he could damn well do it himself.

He'd got the flat cleaned. John would be pleased. It had been an added bonus to his plan. All he had wanted was Harriet's presence in the flat and now he had lost it. He picked up the violin and strode over to the window. John would be back in another three hours.

John returned home in desperate need of sleep. He picked up the post from the doorstep and picked out his and Sherlock's. Mrs Hudson's was left on the table by the stairs where it had been growing since she'd left. 221 Baker Street was eerily quiet. A flicker of hope ignited in John. He would be able to sleep. John walked through the open door to an empty living room. It was clean. Far too clean. The consultant detective did not clean. Speaking of consultant detectives Sherlock was bent over his microscope. There was no acknowledgement of John's arrival. The flame flickered and burned. He would not be getting any sleep.

"Good day?" John asked. No answer. "Have you seen Harriet?"

"Miss Thornton is downstairs," it was the cold reply John expected.

"Ah, what did you do?" it was as if he was talking to a child in trouble.

"John, is it acceptable to inform a woman of their inability to a job properly?" Sherlock spoke without looking away from his work.

"Oh god," John didn't need to know any more. Sherlock looked up from the microscope. His dirt ridden shoes were an insignificant distraction for his troubled mind.

John raised his eyebrows at the detective. "Oh what?" Sherlock asked.

"Go apologise," Sherlock looked back at his microscope.

"What for?" he added as an afterthought. Why should he apologise because she had not cleaned properly?

"For being you," John sighed and sat down in his chair.

There was a knock on the door; Harriet knew who it was, "Sherlock."

* * *

><p><strong>Apologies for posting the last chapter twice, silly fanfiction messed it up. I didn't even know I had reviews (thank you!) until I was bombarded by emails an hour ago. <strong>

**TheGirlWhoWaited- haha yep we all know differently.**

**kie 1993- glad you liked the chapter.**

**Gwilwillith- as always love your reviews :D**

**JumperGuy- wow thanks for the great review, Harriet's name is just a coincidence. I actually forgot that was the name of John's sister until you mentioned it. **


	14. Chapter 14

_****_**Chapter 14**

_**An apology is a good way to have the last word'**_

**Unknown**

"Harriet," the dark haired detective begun. John made this sound so easy. At that moment Sherlock envied John's placid mind that made apologising sound so easy.

"John sent you I supposes?" it was rhetorical question. The irate young woman in front of him had bought forth her teaching persona.

"That's not good?" he seemed genuinely confused.

"No Sherlock, it's not good. Want to know why? It's not good because you should know that when you say something horrible you have to apologise and not because John says so," Harriet folded her arms across her chest. "God it's like talking to my year sevens, except they understand," she turned around and walked back into Mrs Hudson's flat. If he wanted to come in then it was up to him.

"May I come in," he asked tentatively from the door. At least the detective had learnt to ask before entering the flat even if he did still walk in anyway.

"Suppose I should be grateful for small mercies," she muttered to herself.

Sherlock sat down in Mrs Hudson's chintz armchair. His arms were pressed to his side and his slender fingers were clasped together resting on his chin. A slight frown graced his features. This was difficult.

Harriet picked up the crumpled Radiotimes that Mrs Hudson had delivered. She'd already thumbed through it several times. With every turn of the page Harriet looked up at Sherlock. She started out reading the articles again but now she just skimmed the page. None of the words were sticking.

"Please stop," Sherlock had to bite back the rest of his demand. He had enough sense to know that it would only irritate the woman further. Harriet flicked the page with more force. This time she didn't look up. She reached the end of the Radiotimes, closed it with a slap and let it fall onto the table. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. His eyes pierced through Harriet. She was determined not to let him bother her.

Harriet couldn't keep the farce going any longer, "what are you doing here?"

"You already know what," he replied.

"John sent you but why?" Harriet knew but wanted to hear him say it. He gave her a look that implied she was stupid. She smiled back annoyingly. "Just say it Sherlock, is it really that difficult?" judging by the pained expression on his face it was.

Sherlock deliberated a while longer. What he'd spoken had been the truth and he'd never bothered with trivial things like feelings before. The doorbell rang a short sharp trill. He was saved. With a triumphant smirk he sprung to his feet, "good bye Miss Thornton, I'll let myself in."

"No you bloody well won't," Harriet grumbled to herself as she contemplated changing the locks. Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind. She'd probably thank her.

The unmistakable ring of a client had claimed the detective. He didn't need to dwell on Harriet any longer. Sherlock opened the door in eager anticipation. No one was there. He stuck his head out the door and looked up and down the street. Annoyed he headed straight upstairs. That was why he always made John answer the door.

"All sorted then?" John asked as Sherlock walked through. He took up pacing the worn living room floor. Backwards and forwards. Again and again.

"Why would someone ring a doorbell for no reason?" Sherlock completed another relay of the room.

"That's a no then," John ignored Sherlock's rambling monologue and focussed of the issue of the evidently absent apology.

"Really John. We get a case and you're concerned over whether or not I've apologised. Have some perspective," Sherlock chided.

"If there was no one there then why do we have a case?" John received the 'we both know what's going on here' look. He had no idea what was going on. It was probably just kids.

"Sherlock, go downstairs and apologise," John demanded.

Sherlock sighed and sunk onto the settee his phone in his hand.

_Sorry. SH_

He put his phone away and looked up at John. "A stranger rings a doorbell and runs off. Why would he do that? He's not paying a call so what is he doing? He's alerting us John."

"Could be a she," John added.

"No. Male. Too much pressure on the bell for it to be a woman. A man who wants help but is too scared to reveal himself. We can expect another ring. Maybe even a message," Sherlock's deduction was short, sharp and hurried.

Harriet blinked in amazement at the text. Apparently five letters in a text counted as an apology. What an arse. Harriet deliberated over a reply. He would have to do better than that. His behaviour over the last twenty four hours had been confusing at best. She had spent the entire evening mulling over the consultant detectives actions. That bloody text grated on her nerves. "An apology indeed," Harriet had mumbled into her toothbrush as she brushed her teeth that night.

John knocked on Mrs Hudson's door and called out not wanting to startle Harriet. She opened the door with a sigh of relief that Sherlock wasn't there.

"Hi. Do you want to maybe go out for a few hours?" He finished his sentence with a brief smile.

"Where?" Harriet looked down the corridor for any signs of interruption from the detective. John was just the person she wanted to speak to. He must know the insufferable arse better than anyone.

"Anywhere. I'm your guide for the day but if you want a relaxed day we'd better leave quickly," he shot a nervous glance up the stairs.

"Two minutes," Harriet left the door open and went to get her things.

"Better make it one!" John called as loudly as he dared.

John had known that spending a day with Sherlock was more than a challenge. He was used to it but Harriet on the other hand had suffered a traumatic experience, one that didn't need adding to. Unfortunately it could not be avoided. To make up for his friends lack of social norms John took pity on the teacher and was her chauffer for the day. Hopefully Sherlock would catch up with Moriarty soon giving the poor woman her freedom one again.

"John do you mind if I ask you something?" Harriet said as they strolled through the picturesque Kew Gardens.

"No, oh," he sighed catching the look on her face, "what has Sherlock done now?"

"Nothing but it is about him," she chewed on her lip as she pondered the best way to proceed.

"Go on then. Let's hear it," John was genuinely intrigued. Nothing concerned him more than his friend's interests. The whole business with Irene Adler had been testament enough. He hadn't expected her to be alive. The moment he laid eyes on her he had been filled with a white hot hatred for the woman. The consulting detective had tortured him for hours with those sad songs on his precious violin following the supposed death of The Woman. If The Woman wasn't going to reveal that she was alive John swore he would go after. Sherlock's behaviour may have appeared as normal as it ever could do to everyone else but to him and Mycroft the change was as clear as day. The whole debacle had only served to make John more protective of his socially challenged friend.

"I may be a million miles away from the truth but I've been thinking about Sherlock," Harriet decided to get straight to the point.

"That's never a good thing," his sarcasm lightened the mood.

"In my time as a teacher I've come across a variety of children with educational needs and I'm sure as a Doctor you have as well. Did or does Sherlock fit into this category?" Harriet was the first to admit her question could have done with more finesse. She waited for John to answer.

The doctor cast a sideways glance at the teacher, "Have I missed something?"

Harriet flushed a deep crimson, "He confuses me. One minute he is an insufferable arse and then well," she left it there.

John didn't need details, "He's just Sherlock," John could fill in the gaps.

"I know he says he's a high functioning psychopath," she tried to sound as professional as she could manage.

"Sociopath. High functioning sociopath," John corrected her.

"Same thing," they weren't but it wasn't important, "but well surely you must have considered something else. He reminds me of a little of an autistic child I worked with in my second year of teaching. The child had Asperger's."

"It's his lack of emotional reciprocity and tendency for monologues," John had considered this many times. It wasn't his area of expertise but in his professional opinion he could see that Sherlock shared similar traits to those with Asperger's but had never been fully convinced.

"It's his fixation with these cases," Harriet added.

"I have considered it but can't be sure. Sherlock isn't one for sharing his feelings and emotions. I think it is far more likely that he is just a very intelligent smart arse," John shared with Harriet.

"Oh. I was just wondering. It didn't matter but well, I thought I would find out seeing as he isn't exactly Mr Approachable. How do you cope with his hot and cold demeanour?" she asked.

John laughed, "I don't think there's an answer to that."

Harriet laughed with him, "No I don't suppose there is." She would have to figure it out for herself.

"Don't worry about it. Sherlock isn't good with change. He'll come round eventually," Harriet nodded.

Harriet enjoyed her day out. She bought lunch for the pair in a coffee shop and made the most of the gloriously overcast British summer's day. Harriet bought her mother a gardening book to take back with her. She loved that sort of thing. Harriet didn't. Every Sunday morning over a cooked breakfast her mother would give a full run down of her garden produces growth. Harriet couldn't care less about organic purple carrots.

Sherlock paced backwards and forwards in the living room. He was agitated. John had stolen Harriet. He had apologised for the apparently derogatory comment and had been making a slight effort at expressing himself better but was still in the proverbial dog house. That woman was under his skin again. She was probably enjoying herself with John. He knew that John was enjoying himself. Doctor John Watson could not say no to a charming lady and Harriet was certainly charming. After the first few girlfriends Sherlock had lost interest in his flat mates love interests. They were predictable and boring.

"John pass me that pen," Sherlock said as soon as John walked through the door of 221B.

John eyed his friend carefully, "there you go," he said as he picked up the pen from the other side of the table that Sherlock was sat at. The lazy git could have done it himself.

"About time," Sherlock thanked. John rolled his eyes. It was not wise to ask how long Sherlock had been sat there waiting for John to retrieve the pen before his return. Sherlock would go for days without speaking or hours without realising that John had gone out. He would get so wrapped up in his palace of thoughts that the rest of the world no longer mattered.

"Have a nice time with Miss Thornton?" Sherlock didn't look up from his scribbling in the newspaper. His question caught John by surprise. It didn't contain the same bored tone that it usually did. There was something else. Something Sherlock was making a terrible job of masking.

Realisation struck John, "Oh my god. Are you jealous?"

"No. I'm not jealous. Why would I be jealous?" the detective spun round in his seat. This required his full attention.

John raised his eyebrows, "Harriet?"

"Yes what I about her?" Sherlock's reply was curt.

"You like her," a grin spread across John's face.

"I've always been able to divorce myself from my feelings," it was an automated response John had heard before. Sherlock returned to the newspaper.

"She likes you too," John had to tread carefully. One false move and he would be receiving the silent treatment once again.

Sherlock stiffened. He had figured that out for himself. John decided to leave the conversation there and went for a shower leaving his detective friend to stew.

After her talk with John Harriet reached the conclusion that she would give Sherlock time. It was like dealing with the kids in school and just like with them she needed patience.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry if this chapter is a bit pants. I've been busy on training courses and then add in a migraine that knocked me for six and the end of term sniffles. <strong>

**I just can't see Sherlock finding apologising easy. Any big mistakes point them out, I'm really tired so I'll have missed some somewhere. **

**Thanks to kie 1993 and Gwilwillith for reviewing :D**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

'_**The man who has ceased to fear has ceased to care'**_

**F. H. Bradley**

Harriet knocked on the door to 221B. She was bored. If she was going to spend her remaining week stuck inside Baker Street with nothing to do then she may as well go home but of course Mrs Hudson wasn't back yet.

Sherlock opened the door in a forest green silk dressing gown. Harriet briefly wondered how many of them he had. He probably had a wardrobe full of shirts, trousers, suit jackets and dressing gowns with not a pair jeans in sight. Sherlock stepped aside and let Harriet in.

"Have you had lunch?" she asked the boys of 221B.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock turned around and all but threw himself down into the arm chair.

Harriet looked to John for an explanation, "he's on a case."

"And that stops him eating?" she asked.

"It does," Sherlock confirmed, "but John can nip downstairs for a sandwich. Harriet will have cheese."

Harriet decided it wasn't worth arguing about. She'd wanted to go out for lunch but would settle for a sandwich. John sighed and left the flat after an apologetic look from Harriet that he countered with an understanding nod.

The room fell silent, "so you've got a case."

"Yes now sssssh," he didn't look at her. Harriet left him to his thoughts and went into the kitchen. As usual the table was cluttered with science equipment. At least there were still some clean plates in the cupboard. Harriet put the kettle on and made a pot of tea and a coffee for herself.

She sat down on the sofa and watched Sherlock. He was a puzzle and she wanted to know what the missing pieces were. "How do you do it?" she asked him.

Her comment caught him off guard, "do what?"

"Sit there for hours and think. No," she wasn't wording this right, "I mean how do you think?" She struggled to articulate her question into words. Harriet wanted to know what made Sherlock tick.

"I have a mind palace," he replied in a low quiet voice. Harriet had obviously forgiven him his earlier bellicose comment, something he was in no hurry to repeat.

Harriet bit her lip in amusement. Keeping a straight face was far too difficult a task when the man across from her had an impassive expression and was talking about mind palaces. She had to accept the fact that Sherlock was well, he was Sherlock. She set the rattling china down onto a stack of faded newspapers. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. Harriet sat back on the sofa and watched him.

Every now and then his fingers would move but other than that he was statue still. His icy eyes stared straight ahead with the occasional blink mesmerising Harriet. She was fascinated. Her gaze travelled past his defined cheek bones and settled on his bowed lips. She shifted uncomfortable on the sofa as she remembered the pleasure of kissing those lips. It was better for Harriet that she concentrated on something else. She stood up and went back down to Mrs Hudson's to retrieve her magazine then returned back upstairs to 221B.

Harriet flicked through the pages of expensive dresses in _Elle_, if only she didn't earn a teachers wage. She tried to turn the pages quietly because disturbing Sherlock was something she'd rather not do. The click of a key in the look and John's steps on the stairs signalled the arrival of lunch. John looked between Harriet and Sherlock. "He's in his mind empire," Harriet told John.

"Palace," John corrected as he handed over the paper bag, "don't give him ideas." Sherlock would relish the idea of a mind empire rather than palace.

"I think you're right," she laughed quietly and poured out a tea for John and one for Sherlock.

"Out! Now!" Sherlock sparked into life. He hadn't minded Harriet's company despite the rather important fact that she was his biggest distraction. To send her away would only add fuel to the fire that had been dampened from his last unfeeling comment. John's arrival had snapped the thread that was holding Sherlock's almost pleasant behaviour in place. It would not do. They both had to go whilst he went to his mind palace.

Harriet frowned and stood up, Sherlock's eyes slipped towards the irate woman. He'd been staring at the answer the whole time. She was his clue. "Oh. Oh, Miss Thornton not you. You are just the person we need," Sherlock launched to his feet took two long steps towards Harriet and kissed her on the lips.

"I am," she squeaked a reply, "what could I do that would help?" She doubted.

"Yes. Child's drawing on the table. Look at it," the fleeting glimpse of emotion had gone. Harriet tried to shove Sherlock from her mind as she looked at the drawing on the table. If he needed her for the case then she was determined prove herself. "And?" he prompted. Harriet didn't understand why she was looking at the drawing what was important about it?

The drawing was done in wax crayon. Blunt ones by the looks of it. There was a badly drawn Ferris wheel with a river behind it. At the base of the wheel was what interested Harriet most. There stood two figures. The first was tall and wore a dark suit. The second figure was slightly shorter and stood by the side of the first. Harriet looked up at Sherlock and then John. "Is that supposed to be you?" she asked.

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock confirmed. Harriet couldn't tell if it was genuinely meant or not. "What else?"

A closer look told Harriet that they weren't compartments on a Ferris wheel but pods.

"That's the London eye," she stated. She looked again. Big Ben had been drawn next to the wheel with the time 10.20am shown by the hands.

"Anything else?" Harriet couldn't see what Sherlock was getting at.

"No," she could see the disappointment on his face. Sherlock stepped next to her and leant over her shoulder.

"There," he flipped the paper over, "look." Harriet was trying to look but the moment Sherlock had stepped close her concentration level had plummeted. Bloody detective.

"Oh," she tried to place the date. Sixth of August. What was todays date?

"You have seen but you have not observed. The date is tomorrow. Time is twenty past ten. Morning in case you were wondering although the sun in the sky is a big give away. Drawn by a child. Seven years. This picture was drawn from a verbal description. I am detailed. Look at my clothes. The hair. The cheekbones. The other person is not John. It is a woman. Wearing trousers. I can see why untrained eyes could mistake it. Now the date. Why tomorrow? Why is Miss Thornton with me? Look at the pod on the top," Harriet looked. A dark blob stood in the middle of the pod. "Moriarty."

The room fell silent. Harriet didn't quite know what to think. John and Sherlock, however, knew exactly what to think. Moriarty struck fear in the heart of John. Sherlock had found Moriarty to be a worthy challenge and had no considered fear to be an option until those explosives had strapped to John. Now once again this unfamiliar emotional territory was bubbling to the surface. Only this time the focus wasn't John but Harriet.

"M-Moriarty," Harriet had allowed a fear to build at the sound of the man's name. Sherlock was still peering over Harriet's shoulder at the picture. He gently placed his hand over hers next to the picture. It was a simple gesture but provided Harriet with a little comfort.

"It's an inaccurate portrayal of the London Eye and surrounding area," Sherlock criticized as he scrutinised the picture yet again.

"It was done by a five year old, you can hardly expect them to be Van Gough or Turner," Harriet defended the child's work.

"Seven. He was seven years old," Sherlock corrected.

John looked at the pair with intrigue. Sherlock Holmes had just gone out of his way to comfort a woman. Now there was something you didn't see every day. It was a gentle gesture that was far too thoughtful for the consulting detective.

"Where did you get that?" John didn't want to interrupt the rare event of Sherlock showing that he cared but Moriarty was involved. They could not waste time.

"Yesterday whilst you were out with my," Sherlock paused and backed away from Harriet, "temporary housekeeper. It was put through the letter box."

"I'm not your temporary housekeeper," Harriet corrected the consultant detective. John and Sherlock exchanged a glance and a slight laugh. Harriet Thornton was definitely related to Mrs Hudson. Harriet left her hand on the table and turned her head to look at Sherlock. She smiled despite her worries.

"I'm impressed that you collected the post yourself," John truly was amazed.

"You think so little of me John," Sherlock's tone of voice had a hint of mockery.

Harriet sat in the ancient wooden chair by the table and returned her gaze to the picture. Why was Moriarty involving a child? "I don't get why you need me if you figured all that out?"

"You're a teacher," Sherlock stated the obvious.

"Yes of eleven to eighteen year olds not five," she hadn't been able to deduce much from the pictures that much had been certain. Her standing as a teacher meant nothing.

"Seven," he corrected again.

"Five, seven same thing. The point is I have no use," what Harriet really wanted was to go downstairs and be alone. Moriarty was ruining her life.

What Sherlock told Harriet and his true motivation were different. "You can deal with children. We need to find the child," his true thoughts involved keeping Harriet close. Moriarty was not to be taken lightly.

"Right. Okay," Harriet was still unsure. She cleared away the dishes from lunch and stood awkwardly near the door. Now was her chance to be alone. "Thanks for lunch John. I'm going to lie down for a while," John nodded and Sherlock's brow furrowed.

John gave Sherlock a smug look. "Out with it John," Sherlock muttered.

"I was right," the doctor said triumphantly. "You are head over heels for that woman."

"I am not head over heels for a woman," the mere idea made him feel sick.

"Well what would you call it and for god's sake don't say experiment," John wasn't sure why Sherlock was trying to deny it any longer.

"Miss Thornton does not bore me," his voice implied that this conversation on the other hand did bore him.

John shook his head at his friend, "if you say so but want to know what I think?"

"Not really," Sherlock replied.

"I think you like having Harriet around, if you didn't we would all know about it," it was encouraging to see Sherlock have his own version of feelings towards another person or more specifically a woman.

"I like having you around," Sherlock stated.

John sighed at his friend, "it's not the same thing." Harriet was good for him. John would not be around forever eventually he planned to get married if Sherlock stopped deducing his dates first. It was not John's wisest decision to say this to Sherlock. He had a feeling Sherlock could only handle one life changing sentiment at a time.

Harriet no sooner closed Mrs Hudson's door when she burst into a flood of tears. With a heaving sob she curled up on the sofa. In two and a half weeks her life had been turned upside down. She couldn't go anywhere alone. A warped psychopath involved in a game with the high functioning sociopath was destroying her life. Harriet was a teacher who until now had everything sorted in life. A fiancé, house, nothing out of the ordinary and a job. Now she had no fiancé, was living with her mother and now feared for her life. At least she still had a job but some job that would be when she couldn't go anywhere alone. The boys upstairs may be cut out for this but she wasn't.

Sherlock sat in his chair and stared at the picture on the table. Where was that child? How had Moriarty got the child involved? What Moriarty wanted was as clear as day. He wanted Sherlock to go to the London Eye tomorrow and he wanted Harriet to go too. Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. There was no way it could be avoided. Sherlock was reluctant to take Harriet with him. It would put her right in the path of Moriarty but it was the only way to find out what Moriarty wanted.

Sherlock waited for John to go to bed before silently leaving 221B and heading for Mrs Hudson's. He knocked quietly on the door fully prepared for an outburst from Harriet for disturbing her sleep.

Whatever Sherlock expected when the door was opened it was not the sight he was greeted with. Blotchy cheeks. Red eyes. Red nose. Dry lips and flushed cheeks. Harriet had been crying. What on earth was he to do? He glanced back up the stairs. John would know what to do but he was asleep. Sherlock panicked and stood in the doorway. He had been rendered silent.

"Sherlock, it's," Harriet looked at the clock in the hall behind Sherlock, "two in the morning."

"I am aware," he replied quietly. Harriet stepped aside and let him in, "you have been crying."

"No fooling you detective," Harriet was tired and niggly. She walked into the living room and turned on the table lamp. Her eyes couldn't take the bright ceiling light. Now turned away from Sherlock she could wipe away the fresh tears with her hand. This was pathetic. She should not be crying. Least of all in front of the consultant detective.

Sherlock hovered awkwardly near the door. This wasn't how his plan was supposed to be going. He placed his hands in his pocket and looked away from Harriet. "Sh-Sherlock, what do you want?" Her voice was hoarse from crying.

"Moriarty wants you on that wheel tomorrow," he announced.

"And you don't think I should go," Harriet interrupted him, "well I agree. I'm not going anywhere."

"I think you should go," Sherlock showed no sign of feeling towards Harriet.

"No," she was hurt that he'd asked this of her.

"Harriet," the Miss Thornton had been dropped, "Jim Moriarty is not to be taken lightly."

"I can't do it. I-I can barely cross the front door," Harriet felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She blinked the rest back.

"We will leave at nine thirty am," Sherlock let himself out. Harriet crawled back into bed and cried.

Sherlock went back upstairs and paced the floor of the living room. Harriet plagued him. Her tear stained cheeks and puffy red eyes. He couldn't think straight. That damn woman had gotten to him again. He leant on the table and bowed his head. This was the only way to find out what Moriarty wanted. Sherlock had to know so that he could stop him. "Urrgh," Sherlock swept a pile of paper onto the floor.

John's light sleep was disturbed by a racket from the living room. Sherlock. It was times like this that made wish that he had anyone other than Sherlock as his flatmate. Hell even Moriarty was preferable over Sherlock throwing a tantrum.

"What's happened?" John asked.

"Harriet is crying," Sherlock paced frantically.

John scrutinised his wired friend, "How do you know?" Sherlock explained that he had been down to ask Harriet about tomorrow. John chose not to comment on the time he had chosen. He would pick his battles. "And you just left?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed.

"The poor woman is upset and you leave her. Sherlock!" John raised his voice, "you are unbelievable." Sherlock didn't need to be a genius to know that he should not have walked out but he'd done it. It was too late now. "I'm going back to bed. Don't break anything!"

"John. No wait, what do I do?" if John didn't know any better he would say his friend was pleading.

"Figure it out genius," John closed his bedroom door.

Sherlock kicked the papers that were on the floor before storming from the flat. He didn't knock on Mrs Hudson's door. He went for the spare key and let himself in. Muffled sobs could be heard from the closed bedroom door.

"Miss Thornton you are being ridiculous," He pushed open the door. Harriet sat bolt upright, her eyes wide with fear. She shakily let out a breath she had been holding at recognising the familiar outline of Sherlock. "Please, can't it just wait till morning," she frantically brushed the tears away. Sherlock cautiously stepped towards the bed. Harriet lay down and rolled onto her side facing the wall, "just go."

"No," his voice was firm keeping his insecurity at bay. With one final deep breath he pulled back the covers and climbed into the bed.

Harriet turned around and backed away to the edge of the bed, "what are you doing?" she hissed.

"You are upset," he repeated his earlier observation. Harriet tried to steady her nerves. The man she had a blatant liking for had just climbed into her bed.

"Just please go," her resolve waivered.

"You must realise by now that once I have made my mind up it is very unlikely that it can be changed," Sherlock brushed a stray tear away with his thumb. Harriet didn't have the energy to argue anymore and caved in. The sodding detective could do as he pleased.

Another tear escaped, "Sherlock I can't go tomorrow. I don't want to die."

"Moriarty won't kill you," Sherlock laid down in the bed.

"He won't?" she was confused.

"Not tomorrow," Sherlock hoped it would be a comfort. For reasons he cared not to admit he was concerned for the young woman.

"That's reassuring," Harriet made a noise that was halfway between a laugh a cry.

"It would be beneficial that you get some sleep," Sherlock removed his hand from her check and lay on his back.

"I, well, yes," Harriet stared at the man in disbelief, "good night Sherlock?" it wasn't meant to be a question.

"Good night Miss," Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, "Harriet."

* * *

><p><strong>Wow thanks for the reviews guys :D I was a bit unsure of the ending to this chapter, I've been trying to keep Sherlock as close to character as a I could. Let me know your thoughts. <strong>

**88dragon06- I thought a text was a very Sherlock-like way of apologising.**

**Jumperguy-the inevitable departure is looming but don't worry I have plans for Sherlock and Harriet :D**

**Gwilwillith- I liked the idea of a jealous of Sherlock. Gah he's just brilliant :D **

**UndercoverCaptain- Sherlock is such a hard character to write. Glad you think I've achieved it**

**kie1993- cheers for the review**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

'_**There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism'**_**  
><strong>**George Eliot**

Harriet turned away from the detective and concentrated hard on not shedding a tear, the occasional hiccup-like sob broke the silence. She would pretend to be asleep. It was mortifying that Sherlock should be in her bed even if he was lying perfectly still. His eyes were closed but that didn't mean anything.

Exhausted Harriet finally slipped into the world of sleep, tormented by unpleasant dreams none of them she would remember in the morning. Sherlock took note in the change of her breathing pattern. Good. She was asleep. It would give him one less problem to deal with in the morning. He could have left as soon as Harriet was asleep but one side away glance at the sleeping Harriet shattered his willpower. He was here as comfort. If she awoke and he was gone then they would be back at square one.

The clock by the bed read seven twenty five. It would go off at seven thirty. Sherlock carefully extracted himself from the bed and silently padded across the carpet. He closed the door as quietly as he could manage and went upstairs to 221B. The smell of burnt toast filled his sense of smell. "You really must learn to cook toast John," Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell.

"Where were you?" John asked ignoring Sherlock's jibe.

"I slept with Harriet," Sherlock replied nonchalantly and waited for his friend's outburst.

John choked on his toast, "you what!"

"Oh John mind out of the gutter," Sherlock found the look on John's face amusing. He cast his glance around the room. The papers he'd knocked onto the floor had been picked up and once again sat haphazardly on the table.

"So?" John pushed for more information.

"So what?" John groaned Sherlock was out to be deliberately difficult.

"What happened?" John wasn't going to let this one drop.

"I went back to Mrs Hudson's," it was all Sherlock was offering for now.

"Yes. I think half the neighbourhood heard you on your way downstairs," John returned to his toast and Sherlock disappeared to his bedroom. He would find out more later.

An annoying shrill disturbed Harriet's sleep. Mrs Hudson's alarm clock. Harriet flung her arm from the bed and felt around on the bed side table until she could eliminate the torturous sound. She rolled over and stretched. Her eyes were tired and still red and puffy from her nights crying. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes she recalled the previous night. Oh god. She was supposed to be in the presence of Moriarty today. Sherlock would be there. Oh Sherlock. She dared to glance at the other side of the bed. He was gone. Had he even been there in the first place? The sheets were crinkled so it hadn't been a dream. He'd left her.

Harriet reluctantly left the sanctuary of the bed and trudged into the bathroom. The cool tiled floor was unwelcome. A hot steamy shower helped to clear away the grogginess from the night before. Harriet put extra effort into getting dressed. Her hair fell into loose curls around her shoulders and her make-up was simple yet sophisticated. She was not going to let this madman get to her. It was all a mask and Sherlock would see straight through it but that wasn't the point. It was for her own confidence.

Harriet slipped into a pair of angle grazing navy blue trousers and teamed it with a cream silk blouse. The trousers and the blouse would effectively hide the bruises on her wrists and ankles. The same couldn't be said for the fading bruise on her neck. Harriet hadn't bought any scarfs with her; it was the middle of summer after all. She made a decision to raid Mrs Hudson's wardrobe. She was bound to have something. Harriet stumbled across a navy blue silk scarf. She tied it around her neck and slipped her feet into a pair of ballerina shoes. Nervously Harriet flicked through a magazine as she waited for Sherlock. Breakfast hadn't been an option. She doubted she would be able to keep it down anyway.

Sherlock changed his clothes settling on a white shirt instead of the black one he had on the previous day. "Come on John," Sherlock swept from the room. John followed and shrugged on a jacket. The morning air was still chilly especially in the shade of the London buildings.

A sharp rap on the door indicated Sherlock's arrival. Harriet reluctantly opened it. "You don't need that," Sherlock reached for the scarf around Harriet's neck. Her hands immediately flew up to keep hold of the scarf.

"No. I do," her voice was faint, "please."

"Sherlock," John interrupted sensing the woman's distress.

"Covering up the bruises will only prove to Moriarty that he has gotten to you. Take it off," Sherlock carefully closed his hands around Harriet's and pulled them away. He then unwrapped the scarf. "I do not appreciate you smelling of Mrs Hudson." Harriet couldn't put up any form of argument from the moment his hands closed on hers. Sherlock had manipulated Harriet into losing the scarf but it was for her own good.

"I'll get a cab," John headed out to the road.

"Sherlock please give me the scarf back, people will look," Harriet closed her hand around the scarf Sherlock was holding. His grip was tight.

"I don't care what people think," he tossed the scarf onto the chair.

"I don't want the attention," she tried one last attempt.

"Harriet people will look at you if you wear the scarf. It is at present nineteen degrees outside and will hit a high of twenty six. People don't wear scarfs in summer," Sherlock knew that fact all too well. John had confiscated his coat and scarf and hidden them away for the duration of the summer. It pained him. It was a good coat. "Moriarty won't kill you," Sherlock was trying his hardest to be reassuring. It was a foreign feeling one he didn't like.

"Not today," Harriet smiled. She appreciated Sherlock's effort, "shall we get this over with then?" Harriet wasn't sure who she was trying to fool with her shameful attempt at courage. Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead and swept passed her into the hall. Harriet took a deep breath and followed him.

John was waiting in a cab. Sherlock held the door open and Harriet scrambled in. She was squashed between John and Sherlock. An eerie silence fell over the cab. Harriet folded her arms and chewed nervously on the skin around her thumb. Sherlock reached up with his hand and pulled her hand away from her mouth. He clasped his hand with hers on her lap. John looked away not wanting to intrude on the moment. Sherlock had done it to calm the poor woman just as much as he did to stop the annoying action. It pained him to stoop to such a human action in front of John but it could not be avoided. He would not hear the end of it when they returned home.

As the London Eye swung into view Sherlock let go of Harriet's hand. "John you stay on the ground," Sherlock commanded.

"Can't I stay on the ground?" Harriet asked.

"A rotation takes thirty minutes, we will meet up after. John, Moriarty will have men on the ground," Sherlock needed to ensure they weren't going to try anything.

John nodded and stood a little straighter. A relic of his days in Afghanistan. He watched Sherlock with Harriet trailing behind heading to the queue for the London Eye. Once they were out of sight he took note of his surroundings. The river bank was behind him. There were hundreds of people milling about enjoying the summer sunshine. It was too early for office workers to bring their lunch outside but was just the right time for mothers with hungry children to be settling down for a midmorning snack. Anyone could be one of Moriarty's men.

Visiting the London Eye had been high on Harriet's priorities prior to her arrival in London, now it was the last thing she wanted to do. As soon as she stepped into the pod her stomach plummeted. Harriet whipped round and marched towards the exit. She didn't get far. A cold hand clasped around her wrist. She attempted to yank her hand free. The hand gripped tighter and pulled her flush against the body it belonged to. "Sherlock I recognise that little boy," she whispered, "I can't do this."

"Who is he?" Sherlock asked his voice was dangerously low. The little boy in question was holding the hand of a man Harriet didn't recognise, a man who was regarding the pair with a wide grin on his face.

"The son of my mother's neighbour," he was a sweet child always ringing the doorbell asking if they could throw his ball back over the fence. This wasn't fair.

"Interesting," Sherlock looked at the boy and then Moriarty. Sherlock let go of Harriet's wrist and headed in the child's direction. He waited for Harriet to catch up, he noticed her visibly tense and placed a hand on the small of her back ushering her forwards. The pod was too full of people for a scene to be made. Sherlock wove his way between the people milling around all the while ensuring Harriet was with him.

"Harriet," the boy grinned a toothy smile. His new wonky adult teeth were too big for his child sized mouth. Harriet didn't look at the man next to the boy instead she knelt down so she was eye level with the child. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and looked out over London; he was less than half a meter away from Moriarty.

"Hello Charlie," she tried her best to smile reassuringly. The boy, Charlie, seemed unfazed, "how are you?"

"I'm brilliant. This is exciting," the child grinned wider, "did you like my picture? Jim said you would." The child had let go of the man's hand. Harriet assumed he was Jim.

"Pfft Jim really? I suppose you still work in IT," Sherlock commented, "how dull."

"The hospital IT department wasn't working out for me," Moriarty didn't look at Sherlock he was watching Harriet. "How is dear Molly? Still infatuated with you? There really is no accounting for taste."

"Hmm, no there isn't," Sherlock glanced at Moriarty.

The doors sealed shut. For the next thirty minutes there would be no escape.

'_We didn't start the fire,_

_It was always burning,_

_Since the world's been turning._

_We didn't start the fire,_

_No we didn't light it,_

_But we tried to fight.'_

Billy Joel's voice filtered through the sound of chatter in the pod.

"Excuse me," Moriarty extracted his phone from his jacket pocket. "Hello?" Moriarty wondered away to the other side of the pod.

Harriet stood up and stepped closer to Sherlock, "Sherlock he needs to be stopped. It's cruel."

"I do not care for the child's place in all this," Sherlock replied. Harriet stamped on his foot and turned back around to Charlie. "Keeping you from something?" Sherlock inquired of Moriarty.

"Oh no. That was Charlie's mother, lovely lady. See, I've borrowed him for the day," Moriarty put his phone away.

"Insufferable arse," Harriet muttered.

"Ohhhhmm Harriet you said the R word," Charlie folded his arms. Harriet was confused, what R word?

"I didn't say anything beginning with R," she replied.

"You said arse," he whispered the word. Harriet smiled despite the situation.

Moriarty laughed, "Don't children say the sweetest things."

"Charlie have you seen what's out that window?" the boy shook his head and went to have a look.

"Nice to finally meet you Harriet Thornton," Moriarty held out his hand to shake.

"Sod off," her fear had subsided and was replaced by anger towards the man that was ruining her life. Moriarty retracted his hand. Sherlock smirked.

"You've got yourself a fiery one there," Moriarty had hung up the call.

"Fire," realisation dawned on Sherlock. 'I will burn the _heart_ out of you,' this was all so Moriarty could torment him.

"And the penny drops. I was beginning to worry about you Sherlock. You were disappointing me," Moriarty placed his hands into his pockets. Moriarty's light-hearted tone vanished, "I will burn the _heart_ out of you." The statement was full of pure hatred. "Charlie is a good artist don't you think Harriet?" Moriarty switched persona and addressed Harriet in his previous chipper voice.

"His drawing was both inaccurate and messy," Sherlock replied. He did not want Moriarty's attention on Harriet.

"Oh don't be mean Sherlock," Moriarty circled Harriet.

"What do you want?" she spat.

"Can't I check up on my favourite person in all the world?"

"You don't need to," Sherlock cut in, "you know exactly what I've been up to."

"You're always so full of yourself Sherlock; you aren't my favourite person in all the world anymore. No, I am much more interested in your lady friend. There is more than one way to light a fire," Moriarty winked at Harriet. He stepped past Harriet and went to join Charlie by the window.

Harriet was shaking. The man incensed her. He'd dragged a child into the mess but most of all he had ruined her life. She took a deep breath and allowed the fear to take control again. Sherlock placed a hand around her waist and walked her over to the opposite side of the pod. It was no use hiding it from Moriarty. He knew exactly what had passed between Sherlock and Harriet over the last two and a half weeks.

"Sherlock can't we get Charlie from Moriarty?" Harriet knew that his planet sized brain Sherlock would know what to do.

"No."

"Your heartless," she tried to wriggle from his grip but he wasn't having any of it.

"Don't," the word was pronounced clear and crisp, "create a scene Harriet, the child will be fine. Look around you. Observe. We are in a crowded place. Moriarty could harm the child but that would not be effective. Listen to his words Harriet. Fire. Burn. He is out to destroy me and he will do it through you not through some child."

"I'm not interested in this childish game the two of you are caught up in," Harriet raised her voice slightly. The old couple stood nearby looked up and Moriarty smirked from across the pod.

There were still twenty minutes left. Harriet should be admiring the view but instead she stared at the minute hand on big ben. It inched slowly towards the end of the thirty minutes. The ground couldn't get close quick enough. The doors parted and Harriet let out a shaky breath she'd been holding.

Moriarty leaned in close as they stepped towards the doors and spoke with a harsh whisper into Sherlock's ear, "I will burn her and watch the fire spread. You'll be hearing from me Sherlock," Moriarty with a smile on his face whistled London's burning as he exited the pod holding Charlie's hand.

"Bye Harriet," Charlie waved. Harriet waved back meekly.

A sleek black car pulled up next to John, "Oh you have got to be kidding me," John cast a fleeting glance at the wheel and climbed in the car. What did Mycroft want this time? He was supposed to watching out for Moriarty's people.

"A bit upmarket," John observed. It certainly wasn't Battersea power station. The car had pulled up outside a shiny office building in central London. It was empty. A new build not yet completed. He was on the fifth floor. Mycroft stood looking out of the window at the ants below.

"It seems you are at a loose end whilst my brother is on a date," Mycroft turned around with a smile.

"It's not a date," John frowned.

"Oh. Then what is it?" Mycroft asked his tone was slightly condescending.

"You and Moriarty have something in common," John ignored Mycroft's comment.

"And what would that be?" Mycroft leant on his umbrella.

"You both like to meddle in other people's business."

"Come now John we both know my brother. He needs looking out for."

John was growing tired of Mycroft's games. He needed to be back at the London Eye looking out for Moriarty's people. "Mycroft get to the point, what do you want?"

"I want you to watch out for my brother, John. Don't let Miss Thornton shatter the small amount of heart that he has. We do not need a repeat of Irene Adler," the words hung in the air. Both parties remembered that Christmas well.

"I'm not the one you should be talking to;" John said eventually, "Actually forget I said that." There was a history between the Holmes brothers that not even John dared intervene with. "Is that all just I'm in the middle of something."

"Yes, looking out for Moriarty's people. How's that going for you?" Mycroft said in his lordly manner.

When John walked back towards the London Eye he met Sherlock and Harriet walking towards him. "And?" John asked.

"Not now John," Sherlock brushed past him and hailed a cab.

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><p><strong>Moriarty amuses me :D Thanks to Gwilwillith, 88dragon06 and kie 1993 for the lovely reviews. <strong>


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

'_**Romanticism is the expression of man's urge to rise above reason and common sense, just as rationalism is the expression of his urge to rise above theology and emotion'**_

**Charles Yost**

Harriet closed her eyes as she stepped over the threshold of 221 Baker Street. The taxi ride home had been tense each was desperate to ask the thoughts of the other but neither did. The door closed and both John and Harriet looked at Sherlock.

"I trust my brother is well, John," Sherlock knew at once when he saw John walking towards them as they left the wheel that Mycroft had spoken to John. It was the annoyed look on John's face that gave it away. Sherlock wasn't surprised that his brother had felt the need to get involved.

"Pleasant company as always," was John's sarcastic reply.

"I'm glad to hear it," Sherlock took off up the stairs. John followed. Harriet waited at the bottom of the stairs and debated whether or not to join them. She wanted answers. Her morning had been confusing at best. None of it made much sense to her. The door had been left open for her. She walked into the once again dirty flat. John was in the kitchen and Sherlock was sat in his chair.

"Tea?" John called.

"Coffee, black two sugars!" Sherlock demanded.

"Believe it or not Sherlock I already know how you take your coffee," John replied.

"Can I have a coffee, John?" Harriet asked, he replied with a yes. Harriet wanted something strong after her morning. It was still too early in the day to even contemplate Mrs Hudson's bottle of gin but she did it anyway. For now though she would have to settle for coffee.

"Sherlock?" she asked. The man in question had his hands pressed together under his chin. There was no reply. "Sherlock?" she tried again a little louder. His eyes slid to Harriet then straight ahead again. She raised her eyebrows. Had he just deliberately ignored her? The git. "Don't ignore me!" she snapped. John looked out into the living room. The kettle was nearly boiled. He wouldn't be able to hide forever.

"Miss Thornton, please go downstairs," Sherlock's request wasn't a request at all it was more a demand.

"No, why should I?"

"I won't ask again," his tone hinted at displeasure.

"Well I will. Why. Should. I?" feeling like a stubborn child Harriet folded her arms across her chest.

Sherlock's eyes slid to Harriet again. Infuriating woman. He had to be very careful about his next sentence. John was grinning from the kitchen out of sight of Harriet. He was enjoying this. Sherlock sighed, "You are being irritating."

"Excuse me?" she sat back in on the sofa.

"I said-"

"-I know exactly what you said," she cut him off.

"Then why did you seek clarification?" Sherlock placed his hands on the arms of the chair.

"I was proving a theory that you had crossed that fine line between being slightly pleasant to insufferable arse," her patience had worn thin long ago.

"It is a title I wear with pride," Sherlock replied dryly.

Harriet picked up the cushion from behind her on the chair, "Miss Thornton show some maturity. Please do not through the cushion or I will carry you down the stairs myself."

"There we go," John decided it was time to intervene and stepped between the pair with a tray of steaming mugs.

"Thank you John," Harriet picked up the mug. She was staying. Harriet wanted answers. Sherlock could like it or lump it.

Sherlock sent a scathing look at his friend. Harriet was a distraction and needed to be out of sight downstairs so that he didn't waste valuable hard drive space on the woman.

"Moriarty had a child with him. I know that child. I-Is he safe?" it was a question Harriet had been burning to ask since she'd laid eyes on the boy on the London Eye.

"The child was annoying at best," Sherlock replied curtly.

"You're annoying at best," she answered back.

Sherlock closed his eyes in annoyance; he did not like people answering back, "It is only a pawn in Moriarty's game. He was proving something today."

"Proving he could get close to those you care about," John added.

"But," Harriet had never had much to do with the boy before, "he's just a neighbour."

"You are missing the point," Sherlock was getting increasingly frustrated with the woman.

Harriet was having a hard time wrapping her head around the day's events. She wasn't as quick or as clever as Sherlock. John did a good job of keeping up, Harriet felt like she was failing miserably. "Well, what is the point?" she tried to disguise the desperation at her failing to comprehend the scale of the situation.

"The point, Miss Thornton, is that Moriarty is out to destroy me," Harriet was already aware of that fact.

"What did Charlie have to do with everything?" she interrupted him mid flow once again.

Sherlock ignored her question and continued. He did not like to be interrupted. "He is destroying me through you. It has become obvious to him that I have some sort of," he was about to say feelings but that wasn't right, "fondness," that sounded much better, "towards you."

Harriet wasn't sure if she should be flattered or not. It was as close to a declaration of feelings that she was probably ever going to get from the enigmatic man. She remained silent as she committed the confession to memory.

"It is because Sherlock cares for you that Moriarty is using you. In destroying you he is destroying Sherlock. Moriarty is insane and will be enjoying himself as we speak," John completed the explanation for his friend who was still milling the word fondness over and over in his turbo charged brain.

"And Charlie?" Harriet asked once more.

"The child was Moriarty's way of proving that he is in control more importantly what he is capable of," the consultant detective explained.

"He's manipulative," John added.

"So what now?" Harriet asked. Her head was starting to hurt.

"Good question," Sherlock got to his feet and peered out of the window. That was the end of the conversation for now.

Harriet had enough to think about for the time being. She really didn't want to have Moriarty or cases forced in her face for the time being. Mrs Hudson's tired flat was just what she wanted. She closed the door, flicked on the TV and made herself a late lunch. The marmite and cheese sandwich was a welcome comfort. Harriet did not like the fact that Moriarty was in contact with someone who had a Thursday coffee morning with her mother. Why would anyone want to get involved in something so domestic?

The loud clatter of dishes could be heard coming from Mrs Hudson's flat. "She okay?" John asked Sherlock as a kitchen cupboard door banged shut.

"Miss Thornton is venting her frustrations," Sherlock answered.

"Oh," John thought about it for a moment, "she does it quieter than you." The memory of Sherlock flinging a petri dish across Molly's lab came to mind. Sherlock huffed in distain.

Harriet was unconsciously making a lot of noise. Her mind was elsewhere. The TV was blaring away without being watched. The radio in the kitchen was playing away to itself. Harriet clattered about putting away her dishes that had been sitting on the draining board for some days. With that finished she took out the hover and gave Mrs Hudson's flat a once over. She wasn't paying attention to what she was doing. Harriet was too busy worrying about Moriarty. He wasn't to be taken lightly. Harriet was angry that he was ruining her life slowly all because of that insufferable arse upstairs. She was fearful for not only her life but her mothers and even those of her neighbours. The boy next door did not deserve to be involved in a grown man's petty game.

Harriet had phoned her mother to subtly check up on the child even though he was probably still in the city with that monster. Her mother never picked up. She tried not to worry too much. It was after all tournament day at the boules club. She would try her mother again later.

The more Harriet tried to distract her overheating mind the more flustered she became. The sound of the six o'clock news on the TV startled Harriet causing her to knock over the glass of water on the coffee table. Frustrated she stomped into the kitchen for a towel to mop up the spill. Luckily it was only water. Mrs Hudson would never find out.

Harriet skipped dinner and settled for an evening of cheesy soaps with over dramatic unrealistic storylines. The perfect telly. She used to watch them knowing that her life could be worse but now that was all gone. Instead it was replaced with a longing that her life wasn't as simple as some of those characters. Oh to be chatting over nail colours in a salon with the fusspot nosy old woman who ran it?

Sherlock had nothing else to go on for now. John had suggested putting in a call to Lestrade and even Mycroft. Sherlock turned his nose up at both suggestions. Calling Lestrade would involve Donavan and possibly Anderson. Seeing Moriarty was bad enough for one day he didn't need an audience with his older sibling, he was more than likely already involved anyway. Contacting him would be a waste of time.

"Will you be alright?" John asked as he walked out of his room.

Sherlock scrutinised the doctor, "Clean shave," he sniffed, "your best aftershave but only your second best shirt. Clearly you don't like her that much. Polished shoes and clean jeans. You are going on a date." There was a hint of accusation in Sherlock's deduction.

"I told you about this yesterday," John chided.

"You know I don't listen to such trivial nonsense," Sherlock turned his back on his friend.

John shook his head. It was always the same with Sherlock. He never liked the women he went to dinner with. John never took it to heart. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock. "Go and see Harriet," hopefully that would distract him.

"Why would I want to do that?" Sherlock replied sharply.

"Why would you?" John closed the door and left leaving Sherlock behind he looked forward to his date. It was a welcomed escape from an action-packed day.

Sherlock waited for five whole minutes before springing to his feet and heading downstairs. The infuriating woman would keep him occupied until John returned.

Harriet didn't bother getting up to answer the door. Sherlock would let himself in. He had barely knocked on the door when it opened; he could have at least had the decency to wait a few seconds longer.

Sherlock observed Harriet from the doorway from the kitchen. She was curled up on the settee but her foot twitched constantly. Sherlock sat on the other end of the settee silently. He concentrated on the pointless rubbish on the television. "The barmaid is sleeping with the bank manager," Sherlock concluded.

Harriet cast him a look that told him to shut up. It was blatantly disregarded, "the middle-aged shopkeeper in the newsagents is stealing money from the till. The manager thinks it's the girl from the college."

"For crying out loud. I have had enough. Shut up or leave!" she snapped. Sherlock was tempted to reply that she wouldn't leave when he'd asked earlier so why should he. It was one of his wiser decisions not to. He flicked his eyes over the woman. Her hair was dishevelled and the cream blouse she was wearing was untucked from her skirt at the side. "You are upset," he perceived.

"I'm not upset. I'm," she wasn't quite sure what she was.

"Letting Moriarty get to you," he finished her sentence.

With a heavy sigh Harriet agreed. Sherlock contemplated for a moment. What would John, the voice of his conscience, advise him to do?

"How do you do it?" Harriet flicked the TV off. It had lost its appeal with Sherlock ruining the transparent storyline.

"Do what?" he briefly wondered what he had done this time to irritate Harriet.

"Deal with Moriarty on a daily basis," she clarified.

"I don't," he drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"Then how do you cope with it all?" it was a genuine question. Harriet wanted to know what she could do to cope. How could she be cool and calm about it?

"You misunderstand me Miss Thornton," Harriet wouldn't admit it to the consultant detective in person but she loved the way he said her name, "Moriarty only likes to make himself known every now and then. It is not a daily thing."

"Oh," Harriet didn't hide her disappointment that Sherlock was not capable of feeling anything. Then it hit her. That was his coping mechanism. She felt she understood him a little better but only a little.

"Do you want a drink?" her manners hadn't completely deserted her as she wracked her brain for something to say.

"Black-"

"-two sugars, I know," she smiled at the annoyed expression on his face. Sherlock followed Harriet into the kitchen. She would no doubt not put enough sugar in his coffee. John had short-changed him out of half a spoon in his earlier coffee.

Harriet could feel his eyes boring into her. She deliberately busied herself with the drinks. Those eyes could demolish the protective wall she'd surrounded herself with since her abduction. Finally she turned to look at him. He was still dressed to the nines in his crisp shirt and fitted blazer. That fluttering feeling returned. Harriet welcomed it from the anger, fear and confusion she'd been consumed with all day.

He took the cup deliberately brushing his fingers against hers. The result was added to his list of findings from his other so called experiments. She'd smiled, something he had seen very little of since Moriarty's interference. Sherlock sipped the piping hot liquid. It scolded his throat a worthy price to pay for his attempt at suffocating the effect Harriet's smile had on him.

Harriet wouldn't deny it if she was asked. She had fallen for the insufferable arse. "Sod this," she mumbled and pulled the cup from his hand. The action was unexpected by Sherlock. Had it been expected he would have refused to let go. Harriet set the cup down on the side, reached up, grabbed his shirt collar and pulled his lips to hers.

The woman was attacking him. His eyes widened in surprise. How had he not seen this coming? He had to try very hard not to kiss her back. Sherlock didn't try hard enough. His eyes fluttered shut and his hands slipped to her waist. She smiled victoriously into the kiss.

Harriet's nimble fingers made quick work of the top three buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock withdrew her hands and held them to her side. He was not letting her have the upper hand. His Neanderthal behaviour towards the infuriating woman would have to be accepted for now. He was a man and despite his high functioning mind some things could not be ignored forever.

"Bedroom," Harriet gasped, pulling him along. Sherlock shushed her and claimed his lips for his own again.

* * *

><p><strong>So I was going to hold off posting for a few days and get some work marked before the easter holidays but after taking 32 year sevens outside to look at soil I needed some therapy in the form of Sherlock and Harriet. It was for my own sanity. Thanks to everyone who has been reading and the alertsfavourites and whatnots.**

**88dragon06- I thought it was about time that Mycroft pestered John. Thanks for the review.**

**Jumperguy- Your review made my day, I wish there was a Sherlock to kick annoying children in the face after my annoying year 7 class today.**

**Gwilwillith- off his rocker definitely sums up Moriarty :D**

**kie 1993- thanks for the review. **


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

'_**Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow'**_

**Aesop**

Sherlock was losing time as he lay next to Harriet. Her soft warm skin pressed against his was proving to be quite distraction. If he didn't leave soon it would become a problem. Sherlock's time would be better spent upstairs. There was an interesting grease fingerprint on a paper bag that he was itching to investigate in his kitchen lab. There was also the other pressing issue of Moriarty which Sherlock hated to admit he had hit a brick wall with. Mycroft was looking. Sherlock knew that much. He had the homeless network on alert and had called in several favours he was owed but it was all part of the game.

Sentiment had reared its ugly face in Sherlock's direction. It would not do. Sherlock stared up at Mrs Hudson's bedroom ceiling for the second night in a row. Harriet was lying far too close for comfort. Her head rested on his bare chest. Sherlock was bored. How long was expected to lie there for anyway? He absently traced circles onto Harriet's back. If he moved now she would wake up. Sherlock would rather not have to explain why he was making a swift exit. It was a hassle he could do without. He had to wait for her to move before making his escape. Sherlock waited for two hours and fifty-six minutes, she still hadn't moved.

Sherlock frowned at Harriet. She was doing this deliberately. Was it a woman's prerogative to be difficult? He thought on this for a moment. No, Molly would do anything he asked. He had two choices. Wake the woman or stealthily slip from her grasp. Sherlock chose the latter. He reached for his boxers and found his trousers strewn across Mrs Hudson's antique chair. His shirt was hanging off the end of the bed, his blazer jacket was harder to find. Sherlock tiptoed bare foot from Mrs Hudson's upstairs to 221B with his shoes in hand. His socks had disappeared in the nights activities. He had to remember to look for them before Mrs Hudson's return. It would probably induce a heart attack at the thought of the activity that occurred in her room. He would not wish that on his housekeeper.

"What time do you call this?" John looked at his watch. It was difficult to keep a straight face. He was used to Sherlock disappearing and reappearing at strange hours but this was different. The dishevelled barefoot detective was a somewhat humorous sight.

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped.

"Honestly Sherlock I go out on a date and you jump into bed with Harriet," his friend always had to go one better.

"She attacked me," Sherlock was slightly irritated that it hadn't been on his terms even if he had been a willing participant.

John blinked in disbelief, "and you did nothing to instigate it?" There was no way Sherlock was innocent in it all, John rethought this, innocent wasn't really the right word. He shuddered at the thought. Sherlock at least had the decency to look guilty, he opened his mouth to explain, "I don't want details." John had only just had breakfast he did not need a detailed explanation of the consultant detective's sex life. Sherlock wasn't exactly keen to share his evening's activities with John and headed for his bedroom. "You are missing your socks," Sherlock, with a haughty expression, took off to his room. He was not going to be ridiculed by John.

Sherlock emerged moments later clad in his favourite dressing gown. He was agitated as he sifted through a cardboard box on the floor. "What are you looking for?" John asked.

"Cigarettes, John. Where are they?" He'd already turned his sock draw upside down in pursuit of his fix. Sherlock had no patience to be calm about his search he tipped the box onto the floor. Once glance told him the packet had been moved.

"Sherlock you were doing well," John sighed. The consultant detective always found a way to undermined John. Within the hour he would have found a cigarette. "I thought the nicotine patches were working?" The detective sent him a scathing look. "I doubt Harriet would approve," John hoped this would sort Sherlock out.

"I don't care what Miss Thornton approves off," Sherlock's reply was cold.

"Right, okay, glad that's settled," John folded his newspaper and got to his feet. It was far too early in the morning to deal with the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock looked down at his friend from the kitchen stool he was stood on. He had been feeling the tops of the cupboards for hidden packets all he'd found was dust the Harriet had missed. Sherlock would take that up with her later. "Where are you going?"

"To work Sherlock. I'm covering holiday's this week," John had explained this several times to the detective in the last week. There was no reply.

Sherlock sat down at his microscope looking at nothing. Oh how he wanted a cigarette. Moriarty was weighing on his mind. He had dragged Harriet into this twisted game of his. It was between him and Sherlock. Harriet just didn't provide the same challenge that Sherlock did. Her only use was so Moriarty could have the upper hand over him. The only way Sherlock could have the upper hand over Moriarty was to shove Harriet as far away as he possibly could.

Something tugged at Sherlock's gut. Was it guilt? No that wasn't right or was it? He was thinking of Harriet. Why was he feeling guilty for leaving? 'Caring is not an advantage,' his brother words weighed down on his mind. It was very rarely that Sherlock agreed with Mycroft this was one of those occasions. There was no advantage in this for him. None that he would recognise and yet he had a feeling akin to caring.

Sherlock heard footsteps up the stairs. Too heavy to be Harriet's. John must have forgotten his wallet again. A second later John walked in picked up his wallet off the table and left. He paused at the door and turned back to Sherlock, "Did you?"

"Yes," Sherlock knew what John was going to say.

"In Mrs Hudson's…"

"Yes, in Mrs Hudson's bed," Sherlock confirmed for his friend.

"Okay," John left again thoroughly disturbed. It would take a lot to scrub that from his mind

Sherlock's mind was stuck on a viscous loop. Courtesy of John he was now thinking of that infernal woman downstairs. Despite his lack of concern for social conformity Sherlock realised that spending the night with a woman and then leaving before morning was frowned upon. This fact had helped him solve a case two years ago. Harriet would be fuming when she woke up. The woman downstairs was going to beat Moriarty to it and kill him when she woke up. It would be in Moriarty's best interest to keep him alive.

Harriet slept late the following morning. She untangled herself from the rumpled sheets. Why wasn't she wearing any pyjamas? Oh god, Harriet groaned. She'd slept with Sherlock. Her memory took great delight in replaying the moment she all but attacked him. How embarrassing? Harriet concentrated on the space next to her that had previously been occupied by Sherlock. He was gone. She reached out and placed a hand over the sheets. Cold. He'd been gone a while. Harriet wanted to believe that he was still in the flat perhaps cooking up a feast in the kitchen or in the shower but she knew better. Sherlock Holmes had fled the scene of the crime.

Harriet's embarrassment faded into hurt as she realised Sherlock had left. "Arse," Harriet cursed the man as she headed for the shower wrapped in Mrs Hudson's faded bed sheet. Sod him; she was going home in a few days.

For the rest of the day Harriet neither saw nor heard Sherlock, she had expected to hear him making a racket upstairs but there was nothing. As midnight approached footsteps could be heard on the stairs. A muffled voice filtered through the crack under Mrs Hudson's door, "John hurry up. Anderson will have destroyed the crime scene if you don't," Harriet suspected that Sherlock had found another case. She gave up on waiting for him to show his face.

Harriet absently spent the evening watching a game show; she occasionally muttered the answer aloud. Most of her brain power had been snatched up by the insufferable arse upstairs. She was trying to figure out what made him tick. Her conversation with John at Kew Garden's had helped a little bit. Harriet decided she wasn't going to push him. She would have to be patient and accept the fact that Sherlock was not to be lumped in with the normal members of the male species. He was an exception. Harriet knew enough to know that his leaving was not done to deliberately hurt her. It was just Sherlock. What were they anyway? Not boyfriend and girlfriend. Harriet didn't want that just as much as Sherlock. They were just two people who had sex together; people did that all the time. She was just out of a long relationship so what did she want? The obvious answer was upstairs in 221B.

When Harriet went to bed that night she looked at the freshly made bed and blushed. Why did it have to be in Mrs Hudson's bed? She could just imagine the conversation when the woman arrived home in two days' time, "hello dear, did you have a nice time? Did the boys behave? Hope it wasn't too much trouble to stay in an old lady's flat." It would be better to have that conversation without Sherlock around.

Harriet spent the following day cooped up in Mrs Hudson's flat, she remembered John saying he was working so there was no hope her leaving anytime soon. After two days of sitting around doing nothing and with one day left in London she was getting annoyed. Harriet flicked the TV over to a game show as the light faded outside the living room window.

"You're avoiding me," Harriet barged into the upstairs flat less than half an hour later. She still accepted that Sherlock had left in the morning what bothered her was that he hadn't contacted her since.

"Hmmm, no, I simply don't need you at the moment." Sherlock didn't look up from the microscope. John cringed. His friend had bought this on himself.

"You don't need me," Harriet repeated, "oh that's absolutely fine."

"Sarcasm does not become you Harriet," Sherlock's reply was droll.

"Well maybe I need you," her voice was quiet. She knew it sounded pathetic, even more so with John as an audience. It was hard for her to keep the business with Moriarty at bay.

"Why what's happened?" he inquired immediately, the meaning of her words bouncing off the detective.

"Nothing," she replied feeling dejected. She was just glad of the company being stuck inside Baker Street. Harriet got the impression that Sherlock was no longer interested in her. Whatever was under the microscope was more deserving of his attention. Harriet wasn't sure what to think.

"Then you don't need me," Harriet gave up. It hurt her that he was dismissing her. Not even John's apologetic look as she walked into hall could soothe things.

Harriet went back downstairs to Mrs Hudson's flat. Telephoned her mum and filled her in on the last few days, a few details were omitted. Her mother had more exciting things to tell Harriet, she had entered a boules tournament and come fifth. Harriet congratulated her mother and arranged for her pick up from the station the following night. She had booked a late train in the hope of spending one last glorious day in London. So much for that. It was pouring with rain and she was stuck inside. At least she would be able to talk to Mrs Hudson.

Going home was the best thing that could happen to her at the moment. She would be away from the insufferable arse upstairs and could hopefully put Moriarty from her mind. There were three weeks left of the summer holidays that was plenty of time to return to return to her normal safe life.

John got up off the sofa and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, "Mycroft asked me to do something?" This caught Sherlock's attention. What was his brother demanding now? He sat back from the microscope and scanned his eyes over John. Irritation. Tiredness. Disappointment. Not good. Sherlock looked back down the microscope feigning disinterest. He knew John would spit it out. "He asked me to look out for you," Sherlock huffed there was nothing new there, "he thought Harriet might shatter the small amount of heart that you have." Sherlock scoffed. He did not have a heart to shatter. "Want to know what I think?" Sherlock sat back again.

"Enlighten me John," he droned.

John bristled, "I think I should be watching out for Harriet. She's the one with a heart." John pushed off from the doorframe and sat down to work on his blog. He had been happy to see his friend take two steps forward into the world of human emotions only now he'd taken a step back. For someone so clever he could be incredibly naive in this area.

Sherlock returned to the microscope, this was exactly why he didn't bother with trivial emotions and sentiment. They were the names given to complex chemical reactions in the body and nothing more. He had chemical reactions happening in the beaker of hydrochloric acid and man's fingernail stored in the bathroom cabinet. There was nothing special them and yet there was something intriguing about the way he reacted to Harriet.

John was going to bed. His friends silence was now beginning to grate on his nerves. Normally he would be fine with the silence. In fact he usually enjoyed it. There were no smart remarks or sarcastic comments. It was usually a sign that something was up a case that required thinking, his brother, Irene Adler or Harriet the newest addition to the list.

Sherlock waited for John to fall asleep, it was usually thirty seven minutes after closing his bedroom door that faint snores filtered into the living room. He waited for the snores then stood up from his perch in the kitchen and leaving all the lights on and went downstairs to Mrs Hudson's door. Sherlock paused. He'd slept with the woman. Knocking on the door was no longer important.

"I don't _need_ a girlfriend," he used the spare key and strode into the living room catching Harriet by surprise.

"I don't _need_ a boyfriend," she recovered quick enough.

"Good," he stated.

"Glad that's settled," Harriet's tone matched his.

"You are returning home tomorrow," Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and stood in the doorway to the living room.

"I am," she confirmed. There was a silence between the pair. Harriet couldn't keep up her cold attitude any longer, "what about Moriarty?"

"Moriarty is going to use you to get to me. If I cease to have a," Sherlock contemplated the best word to use. He wasn't going to use one of those sickening words that John used like love or intimacy but he couldn't use something blunt and straight to the point either, Harriet would be offended. "Interest in you," that was the best he could manage, "Moriarty won't buy it. I will be doing it to protect you and will therefore still be admitting to having an interest in you. He will still use you. There is no way of keeping you out of this."

Harriet wasn't sure what Sherlock was trying to say. She understood Moriarty's threat enough already. Sherlock was frustrated with the young teacher. Why couldn't she grasp what he was trying to say? If he had to resort to words she could understand then he would sound just like John. That would not do.

Harriet, with her legs tucked beneath her on the sofa, turned back towards the TV. Sherlock unfolded his arms from behind his back and moved from the doorway. It made sense to him. He stepped towards the sofa and held his hand out towards Harriet. Who looked at the hand and then returned to the TV. Sherlock flexed his fingers. Surely that was enough of a hint.

"Miss Thornton. I will not repeat myself," Harriet concentrated hard on the TV. If he could ignore her then so could she. He reached for the remote and switched the TV off.

"Look Sherlock I am not going to do as you want because you have snapped your fingers at me," Harriet crossed her arms.

"I didn't snap my fingers, I held my hand out," he corrected.

"It's the same thing. I am not here for you to pick and drop as and when you please."

"Miss Thornton," he sighed at her lack of cooperation, "Harriet, I will only repeat myself once. Whether I continue to have an interest in you or not is irrelevant to Moriarty. Therefore I have decided that exploring this interest is a worthy pursuit of my time. On your return home it is essential that you are vigilant. Moriarty will not stop."

Harriet got to her feet and took Sherlock's waiting hand, she allowed him to pull her close and she allowed him to bury his face in her neck. "Sherlock, I understand but what you said earlier, it hurt. It was as if you had found something better to do and I understand that cases are important to you and understand that whatever this is is not conventional but despite this it still hurt."

Sherlock lifted his head up, "then you have my sincerest apologies. Don't look so surprised at my apology." He sent her a text in apology before and yet now he could say it with ease. This man would be the death of her.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry, I've been sitting on this chapter all week and I'm still not totally happy with it. Everytime I sat down to write it I've not had any motivation, I blame it on the end of term cold and stack of marking that has taken up my evenings but now I have two whole weeks off so lots of updates. Thank you to everyone who has been reading, if you have suggestions on how I can improve this chapter then let me know. <strong>

**JumperGuy- aaaah summer 2013 but that's agessss, I was planning on going travelling during the holidays but might rethink it to stay home and watch. **

**88dragon06- I'm sure there will be plenty of chance for Harriet to throw something at Sherlock. **

**Gwilwillith- yep, finally it happened :D **


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

'_**Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love'**_

**George Eliot**

Harriet rushed to pack her things before Mrs Hudson returned. Her clothes were stuffed into the case without a care. The iron would have to come out when she got home. The bed sheets had been replaced and the flat had received a quick hoover. She had even put away the dishes that had sat on the draining board for over a week. At least the place looked respectful for Mrs Hudson's return. With the flat tidy Harriet went upstairs to 221B, she needed to talk to Sherlock. He had again disappeared at some point during the night. It didn't bother Harriet this time. Harriet knocked on the door. She could have barged in like yesterday but it didn't feel right. The air had been cleared with the detective but she was leaving today it could easily upset the balance they'd reached.

"Harriet, hello, come in," John answered the door and stepped aside.

"Is Sherlock about?" the horrible smell that lingered in the flat was more than enough evidence that he was.

"He's sulking," John said to Harriet.

"I am not sulking!" Sherlock shouted from the kitchen. Sherlock Holmes was in fact sulking. John knew the signs well. He wasn't talking and had taken to conducting a messy pointless experiment that would go on his website that a grand total of 4 people would take the time to read. John would be one of them, Mycroft and Moriarty making two more and the other was yet to be figured out. It was at times like this that John left Sherlock to his sulking.

As Harriet walked into the kitchen the smell hit her in full force. She covered her hand with her sleeve. It was the only time Harriet had seen Sherlock use the cooker for her whole stay. He wasn't even cooking. The consultant detective, with goggles perched on his nose, was prodding a dark red gunk in the pan. "What is that?" Harriet choked out.

"Stomachs," he announced proudly.

"Animal?" She hoped it was.

"What use would I have for an animal stomach?" his brow creased.

"I can't possibly think," she replied dryly and picked up the pan lid and closed it on the boiling red mess.

"Do you mind?" he set down the tongs he was holding and snaked an arm around her waist. If he could distract her then he could continue experimenting.

"Mrs Hudson is arriving soon," Harriet informed him.

"I am aware of that," he replied.

"Right well, don't you think it would be nice if the place was a little bit clean and didn't smell of burning humans?" Harriet suggested. His distraction would not work this time.

"Mrs Hudson is used to it," He removed his arm and picked the tongs up again. Harriet sensed the end of the conversation and went into the living room to talk to John.

"Welcome home Mrs Hudson, here, I hope you enjoy the aroma of rotting stomach," Harriet mumbled as she walked off.

"They are boiling not rotten. I got them fresh," Sherlock heard her mumblings.

"How very considerate," Harriet caught John's eye.

Within minutes the detective abandoned his experiment into how long it took for internal organs to disintegrate at one hundred degrees and perched on the arm of the chair that Harriet occupied. John watched his friend interact with the house sitter. His hand was resting on her back and there was a twinkle in his eyes that was usually only reserved for a particularly enjoyable yet gruesome murder. So much had changed in the three weeks Harriet had been a resident of 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was going to love this. John smiled at the image his brain conjured.

Sherlock had busied himself with an experiment all morning. If he didn't he feared his thoughts would swerve into dangerous territory. He was not finished experimenting with the response his body had to the house sitter. Sherlock had so far come to the conclusion that he liked the feeling of increased levels of dopamine, norepinephrine and serotonin. He had even grown to like the annoying fluttering in his stomach and the increase in heart rate that accompanied it. These feelings left him with the same high he experienced from a particularly good case except with Harriet he was not, until now, limited as to when and how he experienced the feeling. Sherlock Holmes did not want to give Harriet up for anything. For all he was concerned her trivial job could be abandoned and nobody wants to be twenty five and still living with their mother. He wanted Harriet to stay. With Moriarty out for her blood then it was the safest option. Sherlock could keep an eye on her. It would be a distraction to have her so far away especially when there were cases that required his attention. That insufferable woman had a hold on him.

"Something amusing John?" Sherlock had seen the brief smile on his flat mates face.

"No, nothing important," John shrugged it off.

Sherlock eyed the doctor suspiciously, "You are lying. Your pupils have dilated. What reason would you have to lie?" John should have known better than to keep it hidden. If he admitted to the source of his amusement then he was sure to offend the detective although the detective was just as easy to offend by keeping it hidden. "Miss Thornton, shall we go downstairs?" Sherlock was going to ignore John.

"No, leave John alone. He doesn't have to share if he doesn't want to," Harriet sat a little straighter. Sherlock picked up on her shift in body language. "I want to talk to you both anyway. If Moriarty-"

"There's no if," Sherlock cut in.

"I know there isn't," She sighed in exasperation. This was going to take a while.

"Then you should have left it out," he corrected.

"_If _Moriarty," there was a warning look at Sherlock, "is determined to continue with this petty game of yours then it means I can't go anywhere alone and I haven't so far."

"Lestrade will be driving you to your house," Sherlock prickled that she had called their game petty.

"I know Sherlock but unlike you I have a real job that pays. I can't let them down and stay holed up inside my mother's house like a hermit. There is only so much day time TV a person can take," Harriet flopped back dejectedly against the back of the sofa. Sherlock had anticipated her move and swiftly removed his arm from her back.

"Everything comes at a cost," he got to his feet and paced the living room.

"Well I don't want it to," she sounded like a stubborn child, "I'm going to work. I won't be alone there will be plenty of people there. I work in a school for crying out loud."

"Sherlock she's right. Harriet can't just stop living her life. There's no telling how long Moriarty will be playing this game," John was on Harriet's side, having extra support when going against the expectations of Sherlock was a necessity.

"Your mother has to drive you to work," there was no use arguing so Harriet agreed to Sherlock's terms. She would have to put up with out of tune power ballads courtesy of her mother.

A car pulled up outside. Sherlock leapt to his feet and strode purposefully towards the window, "I do believe Mrs Hudson has arrived." Harriet hadn't finished talking to Sherlock but knew she was not going to get anything more from him for the time being. He had been evasive all morning. He was slightly frosty despite his almost open show of affection in front of John. Harriet wasn't holding it against him. She knew that their goodbye was not going to go by the books.

Sherlock greeted Mrs Hudson at the door with a kiss on the cheek. All was right in the world now that Mrs Hudson had returned to Baker Street. John was left to struggle with her bags. Harriet hovered at the foot of the stairs not wanting to intrude on the reunion.

"Harriet, dear, how are you? Such terrible business," Mrs Hudson fussed as soon as she spotted her. The woman smelt strongly of perfume.

"I'm alright Mrs Hudson," Harriet glanced at Sherlock briefly. He was completely impassive. Was he deliberately avoiding contact with her now Mrs Hudson had returned? She had fulfilled her duty as house sitter and would soon be dismissed.

"Oh dear, no need to put on a brave face. Now tell me, have these boys been looking after you?" she asked.

"Mrs Hudson we can assure you that she has been treated like the Queen," Sherlock bowed to Harriet.

"Sherlock, you are always so dramatic," Mrs Hudson laughed. Harriet wasn't quite sure how being abducted, cleaning 221B and a run in with Mycroft counted as being treated like a Queen.

Queen Harriet went into the kitchen to make tea, "want a hand?" John asked.

"Please," she answered. Harriet had become painfully aware that her time at Baker Street was coming to an end. Making tea was her distraction.

"He is going to be a pain to live with for the next few days," John commented.

"Who, Sherlock?" Harriet had been trying to remember if she bought milk for Mrs Hudson or not, "I have the impression he is always a pain in the arse."

"Yes. Mrs Hudson better be prepared for him playing the violin all night long," John put teabags into the teapot.

"I wouldn't wish that on anyone," Harriet would not miss being woken in the early hours of the morning. That much was certain. Harriet was secretly glad to hear that her departure would affect the detective. For all his talk it showed that he at least cared. It may not be anything more but Harriet would take it anyway.

"So, Mrs Hudson, did you enjoy Brighton?" John returned to the woman's spotless living room with a tray of tea things, Harriet followed behind with a packet of biscuits that she had shamefully half eaten for breakfast.

"It was lovely but too many young people around. Harriet you would love it," Mrs Hudson answered. "My bad hip gave me a bit of jip after Margret made me walk the entire length of Brighton pier," Mrs Hudson rested her hand on her hip.

Sherlock munched on a biscuit and spoke with his mouth full of crumbly chocolate hobnob, "Mrs Hudson you are not old." John shook his head at his friend's flattery. He was probably trying to sweeten her up for the new holes in the wall upstairs.

"I've been trying to contact you," Lestrade walked into Mrs Hudson's flat. Sherlock ignored the comment. "Miss Thornton-"

"Harriet is fine," she cut in. it didn't sound right coming from anyone other than Sherlock.

"Errr right, Harriet, is everything ready?" he asked. Harriet confirmed and lost the battle to carry her bags to the car. Lestrade took care of that.

Harriet hugged Mrs Hudson and promised to call her once she was home safely. The landlady insisted that she stay when the court date arrived. Harriet assured her that she would stay nowhere but 221 Baker Street. John was next in line for a hug. She really appreciated all he had done but most of all she appreciated the sanity he offered when subjected to the constant company of a certain consultant detective. It only left her with said consultant detective to say farewell to.

"So," she began awkwardly.

"Good bye Miss Thornton," Sherlock stood with his hands clasped behind his back and gaze concentrated on the doorway.

"Bye," Harriet was a little disappointed at the farewell. There was no dramatic declaration of his undying love or sweeping gesture of a romantic kiss but it was Sherlock she was satisfied with the goodbye.

John held the back door of the unmarked silver police car open and Harriet climbed in. Sherlock strode through the open door and pulled open the passenger door. He wasn't going to come too, was he? Harriet exchanged a look with an equally surprised John who shrugged.

"I didn't think you were coming," Lestrade had opened the driver's side door.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Sherlock asked. Harriet got the impression that even if it was then he would come anyway. She smiled. The consultant detective was worried. This was his way of ensuring her safe return to Gloucester.

"No but it is my choice of music," Lestrade turned the ignition.

"Lestrade, you get the pleasure of my company for the duration of the journey there will be no need for music," Sherlock fastened his seat belt. Harriet remained quiet. Harriet waved goodbye to a still flabbergasted John and Mrs Hudson.

With the silver car disappearing at the end of the road John followed Mrs Hudson inside. "Well, that unsuspected," Mrs Hudson commented.

"It is Sherlock Holmes," this was quickly becoming an easy excuse for John.

"I know but a car journey," Mrs Hudson straightened a crooked painting in the hallway, "I would have thought it would be boring." Both Mrs Hudson and John were aware of Sherlock's opinion of boredom.

"For Sherlock to do something there is always an ulterior motive," John had hoped to save revealing the jewel of information that was Sherlock's relationship with the house sitter for when Sherlock was around. It would be an amusing sight to say the least.

"Oh what has he gotten himself into this time?" Mrs Hudson asked.

John grinned, "Sherlock Holmes is attracted to Harriet." If it was anyone else John would have said love but this was Sherlock Holmes, love just didn't fit into the vocabulary.

"Oh John, really?" Mrs Hudson and John had discussed the detective's love life or rather lack off on numerous occasions and could never imagine him in a proper real life relationship and yet here they were being proven wrong.

"He will deny it of course," John followed Mrs Hudson into her flat so he could wash up the tea things.

"Sherlock Holmes in love. Who would have thought it?" Mrs Hudson smiled to herself as she started to unpack her bags.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright so I had a slight writer's block but I've solved it, just needed a few days break from writing plus I went away for a few days. Anyways, thanks to everyone who's been reading. I'm looking forward to writing the car journey :D Hope you all have a lovely easter! Thanks to 88dragon06 and Gwilwillith for reviewing. <strong>


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

'_**Human behaviour flows from three main sources: Desire, Emotion, and Knowledge'**_

**Plato**

Harriet scowled at the back of the detectives head. He let her suffer through an awkward goodbye when all along he had the intention of coming along. Harriet cursed him from the back seat. As the streets of London passed by the window a silence had graced the car.

The car merged onto the M25, "How about some music?" Lestrade flicked on the radio. A cheesy eighties synthetic pop tune filled the silence. Sherlock grimaced at the god awful noise and turned the radio off.

"Hey, what did you do that for?" Lestrade quickly looked from the road to the detective.

"That rubbish will lower your concentration on the road by twenty seven percent. I would rather you didn't kill us," Sherlock replied in a stoic tone. Harriet kept quiet she always drove with music. The more she could sing along to it the better.

Silence had descended on the car once again. "You know what? I'm driving, it's my car and I want to listen to music. Harriet?" Lestrade glanced in the rear view mirror at Harriet.

"I'm keeping out of this," she grinned.

"Wise words Miss Thornton," Sherlock smirked at Lestrade.

"I'm turning it on," Lestrade did just that and just to annoy the consultant detective further he turned it up.

Barely thirty seconds had passed when the radio was turned off by Sherlock, "I do not like to repeat myself Lestrade. It will lower your concentration by-"

"Yeah Sherlock I know, by thirty seven percent," Lestrade cut in with a wave of his hand that Sherlock observed should be gripping the wheel.

"Twenty seven," Sherlock corrected.

Lestrade settled for conversation instead of the radio. Surely Sherlock would settle for that. "Gloucester is a lovely part of the country, my wife grew up there," he said.

"Your wife is still sleeping with the PE teacher," Sherlock stated.

"Sherlock!" Harriet snapped from the back, "Gloucester is lovely detective inspector."

"It's Greg," Lestrade informed Harriet.

"Lestrade please don't flirt with my house sitter," the word flirt was said with distaste by Sherlock. Realisation dawned on Harriet. Sherlock had come along out of jealousy. He did not want her to spend time alone with Greg. She didn't admit it to Sherlock, he probably had it figured out anyway but she was flattered by his jealousy.

Greg Lestrade was beginning to regret bringing Sherlock along. With Harriet there for the time being he at least had some salvation but on the drive home it would be just him and Sherlock. He wondered if anyone would notice if he left Sherlock in a motorway services. Lestrade was even tempted to pay for a train ticket for him. Would it be unprofessional to use the siren to speed the journey up? Hell, he had a civilian assisting him on cases, how unprofessional could he get?

Silence took over once again. Harriet sighed and rested her head on the cold glass of the window; at least this was better than fighting on at the train station. Arguing with the ticket barriers was not a good look.

"This is boring," Sherlock declared.

"You wanted to come along," Lestrade replied with a roll of his eyes.

"What about I spy?" Harriet suggested.

Sherlock turned his nose up at such a childish suggestion, "I would win every time."

"Fine, smart arse. I spy with my little eye something beginning with H," Harriet went back to staring out the window.

"House," Lestrade suggested.

"Don't be stupid, Lestrade. The correct answer is HGV. Harriet thought she would be smart and use an abbreviation," Sherlock guessed correctly.

"Alright then genius," Harriet challenged, "your go."

For someone who had originally turned their nose up at the idea he was eager to play although Harriet suspected that had more to do with his desire to show off.

"V," Sherlock had chosen his word.

"You have to say I-spy," Harriet grinned from the back seat. Sherlock caught her eye. The woman was deliberately doing this. Lestrade also smiled.

"I spy with my average-sized eye for a male my age something beginning with V," Lestrade shook his head at Sherlock, he couldn't do things normally.

"Vehicle," Harriet suggested.

"Vauxhall?" Lestrade doubted that Sherlock would make it so obvious as to choose the brand of car in front.

"Volkswagen?" Sherlock was neither confirming nor declining their suggestions so they continued to guess.

Ten minutes later and both Harriet and Lestrade were out of clues. "I give up, just tell us Sherlock."

"Visual Average Speed Computer and Recorder, VASCAR for short. The speed measurement unit which has both distance and time input capability, allowing it to rapidly calculate and display the speed of any vehicle an officer may be tracking," he explained.

"It was in the car all along?" Lestrade blinked in disbelief.

"You did not specify it had to be outside the car," Sherlock answered back.

"Fine. It's my go," Lestrade was now determined to beat Sherlock at his own game; "I spy with my little eye something beginning with M."

"Matrix. The signs overhead that display warning messages to drivers. More of a distraction to motorist than a help especially when they display messages such as 'think bike.' If the motorist was indeed looking at the road instead of the signs then they would no doubt see the motorbike," Sherlock had barely allowed Lestrade to take a breath before answering.

"Alright. How do you do it?" Harriet asked with genuine interest.

"Subconsciously your brain tells your eyes to look at the object you have chosen. We have just passed under a matrix sign and there is another ahead. Lestrade, who should be concentrating on his driving, will have chosen something without much thought," Sherlock explained. It put an end to I spy. "Lestrade you are far too close the vehicle in front, I suggest you slow down."

"At the next services I am going to pull over and let Harriet have the front seat. You can sit in the back or I may just leave you there," Lestrade threatened lightly.

"No, I don't want Harriet sitting next to you," Sherlock replied.

"My god, are you jealous," Lestrade couldn't quite believe it. John had warned him that Sherlock had formed some sort of attachment to the young woman in the back of the car but he hadn't taken John seriously. He'd always believed Sherlock incapable of willingly having something as normal as a relationship and here he was being proven wrong.

"I am not jealous," Sherlock refuted.

"You keep telling yourself that," Lestrade laughed. Harriet looked out of the window to hide her blush although Sherlock caught it in the side mirror.

Two hours and ten minutes later the unmarked police car pulled into Harriet's street. Lestrade had asked Sherlock to get the satnav out of the glove box but Sherlock refused claiming them to be useless and limiting to common sense. Instead Harriet directed them through the streets to her home. She knew those roads like the back of her hand.

"It's the second one from the end," she informed them. Suddenly Harriet felt embarrassed of her mother's house she was calling home. The front garden was filled with flowers, cat statues and a hideous house number was fixed crookedly to the wall. They got out of the car, the doors slamming shut. Harriet led the way up the garden path. Sherlock turned his nose up at the repugnant aroma of the flowers, Harriet had complained about the smell of decomposing flesh, how was this any better?

The doorbell rang with a melodic chime. Sherlock adopted the charming persona he had taken on when he first met Mrs Thornton. "Harriet," her mother swept her into a heavily perfumed hug, "have you lost your key again?" Harriet hadn't, her key was in the bottom of her bag. It was just easier to ring the bell.

"Oh and Sherlock, thank you for looking after my daughter," her mother swept Harriet to the side and hugged the consultant detective.

"Mrs Thornton, the pleasure was all mine I can assure you," he replied. The words disgusted him.

Lestrade was grinning like a Cheshire cat from behind Mrs Thornton, his grin disappeared as Harriet introduced him to save Sherlock from being smothered to death, "Mum, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

"Lovely to meet you," she smiled. Harriet's mother had been her usual hospitable self and prepared a spread of homemade sandwiches and cakes on the kitchen table.

Sherlock took in his surroundings. Flowered wall paper in a hideous pastel yellow and pictures of watercolour landscapes filled the hall. He glanced into the living room as he walked past. A family portrait hung over the fireplace. Harriet, her mother and a man. Early fifties. Her father. Sherlock had already deduced that he had passed away. If he had walked out there would be no family portrait. There was no sign of another male living in the house either.

"You did not have to put lunch on for us Mrs Thornton," Lestrade commented although the look of those handmade egg mayonnaise sandwiches certainly looked appetising.

"Call me Mary, please," Harriet groaned quietly, her mother was at it again. She had to step further into the kitchen as Sherlock caught up. The kettle was put on and the four sat down to lunch around the ancient kitchen table that showed marks from Harriet painting as a child. Harriet was amused to see Sherlock Holmes eating a small triangular ham sandwich from a floral bone china plate. Sherlock met her gaze with an equally amused smile. Although his amusement was for different reasons. He had been watching Harriet since she entered and had seen early on that she had been eager for him not to pick faults with her mother's house. Sherlock had naturally picked up on all the faults instantly but refrained from saying them aloud. He would recount the details to John upon his return.

With lunch over Lestrade went to fetch Harriet's bags from the car. He didn't bother asking Sherlock for help. Mary Thornton ushered the consultant detective and her daughter into the living room. Harriet instantly recognised the signs that her mother was trying one last attempt at setting her up with a man. If only her mother knew that she was too late. She would tell her all later. "You didn't have to come," Harriet sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock.

"I am ensuring your safe return," Sherlock answered.

"No," Harriet grinned and tucked her legs beneath her, "you were jealous of me being alone with Lestrade."

The consultant detective looked affronted, "I was not jealous."

"Don't worry I won't tell anyone. I liked it," she kissed him on the cheek.

"Mary, was your husband a policeman?" they heard Lestrade ask from the kitchen. He must have bought Harriet's bags inside in one trip. Harriet's father had been a policeman before he died in a car accident when Harriet was nineteen. A photograph of an award ceremony they had attended recognising her father's contribution to the service for thirty years was hung proudly in the hallway. Sherlock had already deduced this and was therefore more interested in Harriet for the time being.

"Remember what you promised," he brushed a stray hair from her face.

"I won't go anywhere alone and if I hear or see Moriarty you will be the first to know," she recalled what John and Sherlock had made her promise.

"James Moriarty is a dangerous man," Sherlock clarified. Harriet had already gathered this.

"Can we not let Moriarty spoil our last few moments alone," she pleaded. Sherlock pressed his lips to hers. It would be there last kiss until Harriet returned to London for the court case.

The kiss was sincere yet desperate. Harriet was not ready to give Sherlock up just yet and equally Sherlock could not leave his experiment half finished. Harriet's fist clung to the lapel of Sherlock's blazer jacket as she pulled him closer. Sherlock was equally willing to participate. He was not manipulating Harriet in any way, shape or form to achieve something. His motives for experimentation had slipped away to be replaced by something alien.

"Sherlock! We should go if we're to miss the traffic," Lestrade did not want to spend his evening sitting on the M25.

Their lips parted but Harriet kept her hands on the lapel of his blazer, "goodbye Sherlock."

"Harriet," he acknowledged.

"Where are you?" Lestrade called from the kitchen. He was known to go wondering off in someone else's house.

"Giving Miss Thornton a final warning not to take Moriarty lightly," Sherlock was on his feet near the fireplace. He'd moved far quicker than Harriet had anticipated. Her hands hung lamely in mid-air. She dropped them to her side and followed Sherlock into the hall where her mother thrust a few cakes wrapped in tin foil into Lestrade's hands.

"Ah yes, Harriet, please do not go anywhere unaccompanied. You already have my direct number should you need to make contact," Lestrade added to at least make it sound like he was the detective inspector and not Sherlock.

Harriet reassured Lestrade and said goodbye to him. Her mother fussed over Sherlock once again. Harriet could only give Sherlock a weak smile as he climbed into the passenger seat of the car.

"No goodbye kiss?" Lestrade couldn't help himself. Sherlock glared daggers at him. As they passed through the town centre Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"I'm warning you Sherlock. If you even think about being," Lestrade had to pause for a description.

"Myself?" Sherlock suggested.

"Yes. That. Then I am leaving you at the first services. There's some case files in the glove box busy yourself with them," Lestrade was at a temporary dead end with them anyway. It would make it easier for Sherlock to solve them on the journey home.

It took Sherlock a grand total of twenty-nine minutes to solve all five case files. Lestrade was impressed by the detectives speed. He would follow them up on his return to see if he was right. Unfortunately it left Lestrade with just short of two hours with a bored Sherlock in the car.

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><p><strong>Sorry the chapter is not longer, I've got family visiting for the weekend. Thanks to Gwilwillith and SexyKnickers for their reviews. <strong>


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

'_**True love is like a pair of socks: you gotta have two and they've gotta match'**_

**Eric Fromm**

Harriet enjoyed a quiet twenty four hours in her mother's house. She got to sleep in her own bed which most importantly was not disrupted by loud bangs from the neighbours. Well, almost not disrupted. A text arrived to her phone at midnight from Sherlock.

_Mr Hudson has found my socks- SH_

Harriet read the text twice. What was he on about? Harriet sleepily typed out a reply.

_That's wonderful news- HT_

Sarcasm was the least he deserved for waking her up.

"Sherlock, why are your socks under my bed?" Mrs Hudson has just bustled into the upstairs flat. The offending objects held at arm's length. John glanced between the socks and Sherlock with a smug grin upon his face remembering the consultant detective shamefully entering 221B barefoot with shoes in his hand.

"Must have gotten caught up in the washing," Sherlock lied. It was a perfectly plausible answer to anyone of limited intelligence.

"Yes Sherlock, why would your dirty socks be in Mrs Hudson's bedroom?" John was enjoying this. "Wasn't that where Harriet was sleeping?"

"Oh Sherlock really?" the penny had dropped for Mrs Hudson. A look of disgust wrinkled her nose as she hastily dropped the socks to the floor. "In my bed! Do you have no decency?"

Sherlock sat down at his microscope and concentrated on looking down through the scope. There was no slide but that didn't matter so long as John and Mrs Hudson grasped that this was not a subject open for discussion.

"And she was such a nice young lady," Mrs Hudson shook her head at the detective.

"Is Mrs Hudson. She is a nice young lady," Sherlock corrected without looking up at his housekeeper.

"You should be ashamed of yourself Sherlock, using Harriet like that," Mrs Hudson was not finished scolding the detective. Sherlock stiffened. He hadn't used her had he? In his mind it had been experiment but was that really using her. She had been a willing participant even if it was a blind study in its own way. Now she had returned home and his experiment had come to a close. Why was it then, that his mind palace had been invaded by the teacher? Why were his thoughts riddled with something he had identified as sentiment, or rather concern if the experiment had come to a close for the time being? These trivial feelings were not conducive to solving crimes.

"Mrs Hudson, I did not use Miss Thornton. She is stubborn enough to have not engaged in such activities," Sherlock replied.

"Don't treat her like you do everyone else," Mrs Hudson was not quite finished, "and don't leave those socks lying around." Reluctantly Sherlock stood up and retrieved the socks from the living room floor and took them to his room.

"Sherlock Holmes with a girlfriend. Who would have thought?" Mrs Hudson said to John before she turned in for the night.

Sherlock took out his phone a short while later and sent a text to Harriet. He had been back in London since seven o'clock it would be plenty of time for Moriarty to make a move. Sherlock doubted he had, it was not his style but that didn't stop him feeling concern. He sent a text to Harriet regarding his socks completely ignoring the time on the kitchen clock; he was only interested in her reply.

_That's wonderful news- HT_

Sarcasm, Sherlock noted. He flipped his phone over in his hand, it was the only indication he needed to know that Moriarty had not yet made a move.

The following morning Harriet sat around the kitchen table eating a dry bowl of frosties as she opened three weeks' worth of post. Bank statement, phone bill, bank statement, life insurance (she laughed at this one, they probably didn't cover abduction by deranged consultant criminals) and finally there was a chunky looking letter. She opened it. A court date. Moriarty. Harriet was supposed to give evidence in court against Cash something she did not want to do. She was now finally concentrating on getting over the whole debacle. It did not need to be dug up again but if it meant justice and if it would help Sherlock in any way to lay his hands on Moriarty then Harriet would do it. Life insurance didn't seem like such a bad idea now. Harriet sent a text to Sherlock informing him of her court date. There was no reply.

The court date was set for four weeks' time. It would be the first week back of the new school year. Harriet really did not need the hassle of a court date. She didn't need the hassle of a deranged madman out for her life either but she had that as well.

For the next two weeks Harriet was stuck inside her mother's house. The weather had turned overcast and the temperature dropped with the end of the summer. She couldn't even sit in the garden. Her mother wouldn't let her step out the house to put something in the bin near the garage for fear of Moriarty and yet it was perfectly alright for her mother to disappear off to a coffee morning at the neighbours leaving Harriet in the house alone. She had heard very little from Sherlock but wasn't surprised. There were daily texts that were usually irrelevant; the conclusion of the boiled stomach had made its way into one of the more lengthy texts. It was information Harriet could have coped without. There was very little mention of feelings or emotions in the texts. No 'How are you? How was your day? x' or 'I miss you x" it was more a statement of facts or a complaint about John or even Mycroft. It was always a text and never a call.

_Mrs Hudson has stolen my skull again- SH_

It was another text of pointless information that Harriet had now established was his way of checking up on her. She smiled as she typed out a reply.

_What have you done this time? Or do I not need to know- HT_

Harriet missed Baker Street. She missed its quirkiness and the eccentricity of the place. Her mother's house was too calm and far to tidy. There were no half abandoned experiments littering kitchen tables and no strange body parts occupying the fridge it was just a normal house. Before her adventure to London Harriet had felt quite content in the old family home but now she had tasted something much different and she craved it. Harriet mentally shook herself. Cabin fever was beginning to take hold.

"Are you going food shopping?" Harriet asked her mother. She had been waiting for her to come downstairs so she could pounce on the opportunity to get out the house.

"Yes why? Did you want something?" Harriet passed her mum at the end of the hall and slipped her shoes on.

"I'm coming with you," she grinned.

"No. You know it's not safe for you," Her mother resisted.

"It's not safe for me to go anywhere alone," she corrected, "and besides it is only Tesco's I'm hardly going to get taken down by a bunch of OAP's who spend far too much time dithering over which brand of toothpaste to buy." Harriet was not a tolerant food shopper and being cooped up in doors was making her irritable.

"Fine but text that lovely young man of yours to let him know you're safe," it was an acceptable compromise. Shortly after Sherlock and Lestrade had left Harriet had spilled all the details to her mother, with a few of the finer ones being emitted. Harriet felt that lovely young man was stretching it a bit far. Sherlock Holmes could be far from lovely.

_Embarking on an exciting expedition to Tesco's with my mum- HT_

The reply was instant.

_You have my sympathies- SH_

_P.S The skull has been returned._

Harriet wondered whether it had actually been returned or whether Sherlock had found some means of stealing it back. Probably the latter.

The supermarket was packed with the elderly eager to spend their recent pension money on sweets and cakes for their grandchildren as well as mother's with screaming children nearing the end of their summer holidays. A small child caught Harriet's attention at the other end of bread, tea and coffee aisle. "Harriet!" Harriet felt like a deer caught in the headlights the last time she had seen the child was on the London Eye with Moriarty. He wasn't here was he?

"Hi Charlie," she replied as she tried to keep a hold of her emotions whilst looking for any sign of the mad man. Nothing.

"Oh hello Harriet, Mary," Charlie's mother greeted them. She had bleached blonde hair with perfectly manicured fingernails. Pleasantries were exchanged, forced on the side of the Thornton's. It wasn't Charlie or his mother's fault that Moriarty had manipulated them for his own gain. "Charlie said he saw you in London," the question was directed at Harriet.

"Yeah I was housesitting for a relative," Harriet explained, "did you enjoy London?" she asked Charlie.

"Mr Moriarty was great fun. We even got ice cream, Harriet," Charlie grinned up at her with a chocolaty smile.

"Such a shame he's busy with work in London," Ms Wilson, Charlie's divorced mother said to her own. Her mother's reply was curt and ended the conversation. Mrs Thornton was now fully aware who Moriarty was and what he was capable of. After their brief encounter at the supermarket Harriet and her mother paid and headed home.

Once Harriet had helped her mother carry in all the shopping she was shooed from the kitchen leaving her mother to mutter about not being able to put shopping away properly. Harriet didn't mind she hated the job anyway and besides day time television was just calling out to her. Who had run off with the postman this week? Harriet sat on the settee and sent a text confirming her return home to Sherlock. She was definitely going over her text limit this month. Harriet decided not to tell Sherlock that she had seen Charlie in the supermarket. Moriarty had been nowhere in sight and besides they were neighbours they were going to run into each other eventually.

_Tesco's was all I thought it would be and more. I'm glad to hear the skull has been returned to its rightful place. I'm sure it missed you- HT_

Sherlock was amused by Harriet's text. Finally someone agreed with him on the concept of food shopping. Another text arrived from John. Another date. He ignored it.

Harriet's phone buzzed again she picked it up with a smile only the text wasn't from Sherlock.

_Tell Sherlock home late got a date, he's not replying, John._

_Don't ignore your friends now you have a girlfriend, John is on a date will be home late- HT_

Harriet had hit send before she even realised the word girlfriend had been used. Was she really his girlfriend? No. They'd agreed that she was not and besides she didn't want to be, did she? Wishing she could unsend the text she set it down knowing Sherlock would not reply. She probably wouldn't hear from him for a few days. Why had she been so stupid as to send that? Harriet picked the phone up once more and replied to John.

_Done. Expect the worst when you go home, enjoy your date._

It was only right for Harriet to give John a heads up; he was the only one there to deal with the mess she had just made by her inability to pay attention to what she typed in a text.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay so I have procrastinated so much this week. I said to myself that until all my planning for back to school on monday then I wouldn't write anymore but you're in luck! I haven't started my work but instead wrote this chapter, not much happens but means exciting things can happen in the next few. <strong>

**Thanks to xXxCastielxXx and 88dragon06 for their lovely reviews. **


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**_  
><em>

_'**There must always remain something that is antagonistic to good'**__**  
><strong>_**Plato**

_Girlfriend._ Sherlock scoffed at the word. He didn't have a girlfriend. Harriet was his… What was she? No longer his temporary house keeper she was something else that for once Sherlock couldn't put a label on. The insufferable woman was in his head again completely detracting from the fact that John was on a date. Wonderful. Another woman interfering in their lives. Could they not just be the army doctor and the consultant detective solving cases the police were incompetent at solving. Sherlock believed John was better off a bachelor. There was no need for him to bring another woman into the mix. Miss Thornton was enough for now.

Sherlock sat in his chair absently plucking at the strings on his violin. He needed a case. The last one had been solved with ease. A case or a cigarette. He wasn't fussy. Although a case was the healthier of the two. How much longer would have to wait for John's return?

John turned the key in the lock just passed midnight and headed upstairs to face the consultant detective. He'd had one too many glasses of wine with his dinner not a wise decision when Sherlock was in one of those moods. "Evening Sherlock," he could hear the violin as he climbed the stairs.

"John," the detective replied tersely. It was the same after every date.

"Really Sherlock. It's alright for you to have a girlfriend but I can't?" John tugged his shoes off. There was that word again. _Girlfriend. _

"I don't have a girlfriend," Sherlock answered, "and you've had too much wine. Red, correct me if I'm wrong."

"Then what is Harriet?" John was regretting asking the question before he heard the answer, "and how did you know, about the red wine?

"An experiment," he drawled. They were back to that again. "Stain in the corner of your mouth." John subconsciously tried to wipe the stain away, "not the right shade for it to be lipstick. No good bye kiss?"

"An experiment. Wonderful, just wonderful. You've really out done yourself this time," John flung himself into his armchair allowing himself to be taunted by the consultant detective.

Sherlock's brow creased. What was he supposed to call Harriet? Partner? No Harriet did not possess equal talents to him, partner wasn't right. Companion? No that wasn't fitting either. Significant other? That could work. She was certainly significant to him. To put a label on his relationship with the woman would change everything Sherlock stood for. He was married to his work. Women did not come into the equation. Sherlock took up the violin and strode over to the window. Playing the higher notes just to annoy John. John glared at Sherlock's back; the arse was deliberately playing badly to annoy him.

After her exciting excursion to the supermarket Harriet spent the remainder of her holidays cooped up in her mother's house. She spent hours plotting ways to escape, she stopped short at digging a tunnel from the cupboard under the stairs to the great outdoors. It took a great deal of effort for Harriet to talk her mother into accompanying her on day of shopping for new outfits for her teaching wardrobe.

The texts from Sherlock had resumed the following day after Harriet's slight lapse in sanity.

_John referred to you as my girlfriend- SH_

Harriet was surprised by the acknowledgement of her statement. What was he getting at?

_I'm not- HT_

_I prefer significant other- SH_

Harriet blinked at her phone. He just had to be different.

_Of course you do- HT_

_What is that supposed to mean?- SH_

It means you are a pompous arse, she mumbled to herself although secretly she was honoured to be considered something important to him. Girlfriend didn't fit their situation and yet Harriet was not as reluctant to get involved with another man so soon after her fiancé despite what she said otherwise.

The first week of the new school year arrived and Harriet could finally get out of the house. Her mother dropped her at the school for seven in the morning. Harriet was thrilled to back where she belonged. She could concentrate on what was important instead of Moriarty, not that he wasn't important as well. At lunch time there were four texts waiting on her phone.

_Lestrade will pick you up six o'clock Wednesday- SH_

_Miss Thornton please do not ignore my texts, I do not appreciate it- SH_

_?- SH_

_Am I to take it the children have eaten you alive?- SH_

_My phone has been in my bag all day. Sorry- HT_

Sherlock was tempted to point out to Harriet that most of the students in her classrooms portably looked at their phones three or four times in the lesson so she could do the same but thought better of it. He did not like being unable to contact Harriet whenever he wanted.

The consultant detective sighed. John spared a glance from his newspaper to look at the consultant detective. Sherlock sighed again louder. John attempted to ignore him as he read the sentence again. Sherlock sighed. This time over dramatically. John slammed the paper shut and glared at the detective, "What is it?"

"Bored!" Sherlock announced.

"Check the blog?" John suggested.

"Already have. Nothing." Sherlock got to his feet and paced.

"Give Lestrade a ring," another suggestion from John.

"I'll text him," Sherlock took John's phone from the table.

"Oi! Where's your phone?"

"Pocket," he tapped his jacket for effect. "Hmmm," Sherlock made a disapproving noise as he unlocked the phone.

"Oh what is it now?" John's patience was wearing thin.

"Lucy. Which one is she? Wants to know if you are free tonight?" Sherlock's text composition had been interrupted by an incoming text.

"Ask her if she wants to meet up for a drink," John told Sherlock.

"I'll tell her you're busy," Sherlock ignored John.

"But I'm not."

"Lestrade could have a case for us. Chances are you will be busy."

Harriet stayed later than usual in school that night she had some work to mark for the year thirteen's. The school was deserted leaving just a few teachers already bogged down by work and the cleaners. Harriet had hoped to finish quickly and get out of the way of the cleaners but it was not to happen. "I like to see a person working hard," Harriet dropped her pen. She knew that voice. Harriet looked up to see Jim Moriarty stood in the doorway clutching a hoover. No. "Oh, nothing to say? That's fine, I don't mind doing the talking," he pushed the hoover into the room and pocketing his hands walked over to Harriet's desk. Her phone was in her bag in the history office. She could make a dart for the door. Moriarty looked at Harriet then the door, "oh don't worry I'm not here to harm you. I just want to talk. You see I've got a present for our dear friend Sherlock."

There were scissors in the pot on her desk. She could stab him. No that would more than likely land her in jail and she would no longer be able to teach with a criminal record. Harriet remained silent. Moriarty dropped the brown packaged present onto the desk from his jacket pocket of his cleaning uniform. Had he really got a job as a cleaner at the school to give her the present? "What's inside?" Harriet asked apprehensively.

Moriarty laughed, "Oh you are going to love it. Both of you."

"Sod off," Harriet stood up from her desk knocking over her chair.

"Oh careful now. Wouldn't want to do anything drastic something might happen to someone you hold very dear," Moriarty held up his phone for Harriet to see. Her mother's car could be seen. The picture was grainy and kept moving it was taken from a moving vehicle.

"Leave my mother alone, please," she begged.

Moriarty returned to his hover, "But she's such a nice lady."

"She has nothing to do with this," Harriet was desperate for him to leave her mother alone.

"Let Sherlock open it!" he called before leaving.

Harriet shoved the work into the planner on her desk, picked up her jacket and fled from the room. She headed for the office and grabbed her phone. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade they had all been right when they said she shouldn't go anywhere alone. She had been naive to think she would be safe in the school. Harriet dialled Sherlock. Since she left Baker Street their communications had been text only.

Sherlock frowned at his phone. Harriet was ringing. Something was different. "Miss Thornton," he greeted.

"He's here," she whispered into the phone as she closed the office door.

"Who, Harriet?" Sherlock already knew who. John abandoned making dinner to listen in on the conversation. It was not often that Sherlock referred to Harriet as Harriet it was always Miss Thornton.

Harriet had to bite her lip hard to stop from crying. She took a breath, "Moriarty."

Sherlock waved his arm at John for him to join him and put the phone on loud speaker, this was important, "is he there now?" Harriet shook her head then realising Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell, she mumbled a no. "Harriet, this is important. What did he want?"

"He gave me a package" Harriet took another deep breath. She was fine. Her mother would be fine. She kept telling herself over and over again.

"What was inside?" Sherlock was impatient for information.

"I don't know. It's for you. I'm supposed to give it you, he said we we're going to love it," she ran a hand through her hair her nerves fraying.

"Open it for me," Sherlock insisted. 'Call Lestrade,' he mouthed to John. John didn't need telling twice.

"No, he was insistent that you did and," Harriet was nearly in tears at this point. She had held it together for so long but it was becoming too much slowly her life was being ripped to shreds, "and he had people following my mother on her way to pick me up."

"Take the package home. We will be there in a few hours. Don't open the door to anyone," Sherlock ended the call.

"Moriarty has a package for me," Sherlock clapped his hands together. He was getting bored but now he had something to occupy his mind but something was eating away at him inside. To anyone else it would be recognised as guilt, guilt that he was enjoying himself when someone he cared about had suffered for it.

"Sherlock," the man in question paused in the doorway, "try not to enjoy it too much. Harriet will not be coping with it." Sherlock swept from the flat without another word.

Harriet's mother was waiting in the car park. All Harriet had to do was step from the office, collect the package and leave the building but she couldn't do it. For all she knew Moriarty was right outside the door. Harriet opened the door and checked the corridor. Clear. She made a dash for her classroom and collected the package then headed for the car park.

"Everything alright?" her mother asked as soon as she got in the car.

"No," she confessed, "just go straight home."

"Okay," Mary Thornton knew her daughter well enough to know that she would tell her in her own time. Whatever it was it was important.

_Are you home yet?-SH_

Had the situation not been so serious Harriet would have snapped a retort about her mother's slow driving.

Sherlock had a two hour drive ahead of him. Lestrade was weaving in out of cars on the motorway. John was sat in the front seat, occasionally passing comment to Lestrade and Sherlock sat silently in the back. He impatiently tapped his fingers against his knee as he puzzled over the package. What would Moriarty want to give him?

_No-HT_

He read the message and pocketed his phone. "Lestrade, drive faster," he criticised.

Harriet couldn't get through the front door quick enough; she flung the package onto the table and stormed from the room locking herself in the bathroom. She needed to sort herself out. Harriet splashed her face with cold water and took to taking deep breaths again. Her hands shook as she gripped the edge of the sink.

_Home- HT_

It was all Harriet had been capable of sending to the detective. "Harriet, I've put the kettle on," he mother shouted from the kitchen. Harriet left the bathroom chewing nervously on the skin around her thumb until it bled.

"Can we not sit in here," she eyed the package with a mix of fear and hate. Harriet sat in the living room whilst her mother bought through a coffee for Harriet and tea for herself, a packet of half open biscuits sat on the side of the tray. It was her mother's answer to everything. Tea and biscuits. Fixer of broken hearts, failed exams, overdrawn bank accounts and family drama. Harriet favoured something a little stronger than tea and biscuits.

"Moriarty gave me that package. It's for Sherlock, he's on his way here," Harriet explained. She left out the part that Moriarty had men following her mother and probably had for some time. It would only worry her.

Harriet spent the evening sat on the settee the TV was on but she couldn't concentrate. The curtains had been drawn early on after Harriet complained she had the feeling of someone constantly watching her.

The door bell rung and there was a rap on the glass panes in the front door, "Harriet! It's us," John called through the letterbox.

Harriet's mother went to answer the door, "Wait mum." Harriet passed her mother and checked through the spy hole. Stood on the door step were John, Lestrade and the person she wanted to see most. Sherlock.

"How could he just walk into the school?" she was close to hysterical but was holding it together as Sherlock barged into the house.

"It was the end of the day. No one would have noticed," Sherlock replied, "where is the package?"

"Kitchen table," her mother answered on behalf of Harriet who still trying to process his cold entrance.

"Are you okay?" John asked Harriet. She nodded and followed her mother and Lestrade through to the kitchen where they all gathered around Sherlock and the package. John was doing what Sherlock should be doing, being there for Harriet. For someone so clever he could be incredibly ignorant of some things.

The consultant detective picked up the parcel and flipped it over in his hands, he scrutinised every corner of the parcel and finally sniffed it. "Brown packaging paper. Can be bought at any post office. Object inside is not heavy. Wrapped carefully. No tape. Was not intended for posting. No address."

"Well, come on then. What's inside?" Lestrade prompted. Sherlock was equally curious and tore open the brown paper. Something wrapped in bubble wrap dropped into Sherlock's waiting hand.

"Sealed tight, scissors," Sherlock, with the object still in hand, pulled open every kitchen draw, "ah ha!" until he struck gold with the scissors. He sliced the sellotape and unwrapped the bubble wrap.

"Oh dear lord!" her mother shrieked. Harriet was equally as disturbed but had run into enough body parts on her stay in Baker Street.

"My god is that a finger?" Lestrade asked the obvious.

"Brilliant deduction Lestrade," Sherlock took a pair of tongs from the same draw he found the scissors in. He picked the finger up and held it to the light. "Male. Left hand. Ring finger. Severed above the knuckle. Scar across the tip. Old. Childhood injury."

Harriet peered over the consultant detectives shoulder, "h-he got that scar in school. Did it on the jigsaw in woodwork," Harriet interrupted the silence.

"Who?" Sherlock whipped round to stare directly at Harriet.

"My fiancé or he was," Harriet couldn't stop the tears.

"Harriet," her mother crushed her in a hug. Harriet sobbed on her mother's shoulder.

"We don't know that he's dead," John tried to reassure the distraught teacher.

"He's dead," Sherlock confirmed.

"Sherlock," John warned.

"He's not," Harriet swept away the tears from her eyes and scrolled through her phone for a number she hadn't used in a while. It was Dan's, her fiancé. No answer. She dialled again. It was ringing and went straight to voicemail. Harriet hadn't heard his voice all summer and now she wouldn't again. "Voicemail, he never went anywhere without his phone," she brushed away fresh tears.

"Alright, take a seat. We will try and contact him," Harriet obeyed Lestrade's request. She felt numb. Moriarty was destroying everything.

"I have the number for June, that's Dan's mother," Mary Thornton went to retrieve her address book from by the phone.

"I can't," Harriet felt sick, she shakily got to her feet and dashed to the bathroom.

"Sherlock go to her," John muttered to his friend.

"What use will I have? We need to find the body," Sherlock was pacing. There wasn't time for comforting overly emotional women. It wasn't the time it was more the fact that he didn't want to.

"No you need to go and see if Harriet is alright," John raised his voice slightly.

"I'll contact the mother," Lestrade sensed what was coming, "there isn't anything else you can do for the time being."

Sherlock wanted to be doing something. He needed to be doing something. Harriet was something he didn't need to be dealing with because he couldn't. What was he supposed to say? He wasn't bothered that she was upset over the fiancés death, he was dead and gone. Not his problem. Moriarty was his problem. The consultant criminal had managed to get to Harriet and was taking his time to destroy everything in her life. In one day the safety of her job and someone who had played a big part in her life had been taken from her. That was Sherlock's problem. One of the few things Sherlock valued and she was slowly crumbling. Moriarty was holding true to his word and was going to burn Sherlock through Harriet.

The bathroom door was closed, he knocked, "Miss Thornton." No answer, "Harriet?"

Harriet opened the door. She was pale. Red puffy eyes. Sherlock stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The distinct smell of vomit lingered in the air. Sherlock pushed back the hairs that fell on Harriet's face. "You have been sent by John," Harriet knew he wasn't there because he wanted to be.

He wasn't going to tell her a lie, "he did. I am sorry for the loss of your," Sherlock wasn't going to call him her fiancé when they clearly weren't anymore.

"It's okay Sherlock. I know you don't mean it," she let him pull her closer. His arms encircling her. Harriet bit on her lip she wasn't going to cry again.

"I do mean it," he spoke softly.

"Moriarty. He's taken everything from me. My job, Dan. I can't go anywhere alone. I thought someone was watching me when I got home," Harriet was trying not to sound needy but she was only human. She couldn't switch off to everything like Sherlock could.

"He's not taken me," Sherlock replied rubbing a hand up and down her back.

"Yet," Harriet

"I will stop him. He won't, no, he can't continue," Sherlock was getting riled up. Time was being wasted.

"Go. I'll be fine, I'll just freshen up and then," she stepped back from Sherlock, not finishing her sentence.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed her forehead before leaving, letting the bathroom door click silently behind him.

"All good?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "the fiancé?"

"Mother says he's gone away on business for a few days. She is now trying to contact him. It doesn't look good," John confirmed.

"I will stop him," Sherlock slammed his fist onto the table.

* * *

><p><strong>Moriarty is brilliant! Had to have him show his face. Thanks to everyone who's been reading. Over 50 reviews! You guys are awesome :D<strong>

**Gwilwillith- glad you liked the texts.**

**JumperGuy- hope you enjoyed Sherlock's reaction to Harriet being his girlfriend. **


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**_  
><em>

_**We should feel sorrow, but not sink under its oppression'**__**  
><strong>_**Confucius**

Harriet silently slipped from the bathroom and awkwardly lingered in the doorway to the kitchen. Lestrade was on the phone and John had made a pot of tea. Harriet's stomach churned at the thought of her mother forcing her to have more tea and biscuits. There was a bottle of wine in the fridge that she would much rather drink. She was tempted to raid the drinks cabinet in the dining room for leftover sherry from Christmas or even her favoured gin and tonic. Sherlock, his hands resting palm down on the kitchen table, had his bowed as he leant over it.

It was a Tuesday night, normally she would be curled up on the sofa criticising an unrealistic programme about teachers lives as her mother hushed her and said it wasn't real. Harriet closed her eyes and leant against the doorframe. What now?

"We'll take the tea through to the lounge, Harriet are you alright?" her mother fussed.

"Fine," Harriet snapped, "just what is needed more tea and biscuits. That's really going to fix things. Here Moriarty come and sit down, would you like a hob nob or a rich tea?"

"Don't take that tone with me young lady," her mother scolded as she carried the rattling tray passed Harriet and into the living room. Harriet followed to apologise to her mother. It wasn't her fault.

"He strikes me as the type to prefer a homemade scone," Sherlock added to Harriet's outburst. He agreed with her. This was not the time for tea and biscuits. Luckily her mother hadn't heard him.

"Sherlock," John cautioned. As with every warning or caution that John gave it was ignored.

Sherlock didn't want to get his brother involved. The siblings had a history that went back further than the Stone Age, but he was left with very little choice. Had it been a normal case then he would have invested more in finding out for himself but sentiment had once again reared its ugly head. He was tormented by Harriet's pain and Mycroft could help bring an end to it sooner. Sherlock pulled out his phone.

_Information on Dan Barker- SH_

Mycroft never texted when he can talk, Sherlock never talked when he can text. It was how the pair worked. Just to annoy the other. Mycroft was busy. A conference call to China. His phone bleeped from his pocket. Mycroft took out his phone and read the message. His first thought was his brother had landed himself trouble. He was getting tired of bailing the younger Holmes from jail. Mycroft answered the Chinese businessman's question before typing a reply.

_Done._

"Forensics needs the finger," Lestrade was playing by the book for now or at least going through the motions.

"Have it sent to Bart's," Sherlock commanded. Lestrade had already arranged for that to happen. If there was anything left of it then the police forensics would get a turn.

"So what now?" John asked.

"How do you fancy a cup of tea?" Sherlock pushed himself back from the table pocketed his hands and strode into the living room. Deliberately not answering John.

Lestrade shared an understanding roll of the eyes with John. The detective could be egregious at times. One moment he was insistent they find the body and the next he wanted tea. To anyone who didn't know him he was intolerable to be around and for those that did know him he was still intolerable.

The five sat in the living room sipping tea, all except Harriet. Sherlock's had been left untouched on the mantelpiece. Harriet was surprised that her mother hadn't fussed over the need for a coaster if Harriet had done that she would be banned from taking anything food or drink related in the room for a week. In perspective, it was just not important when a mad man was out to get your daughter. The scene was far too domestic for anyone's liking.

"Miss Thornton is your bag packed for the court case tomorrow?" Sherlock asked from where he stood near the fire place with his hands clasped behind his back. Harriet shamefully hadn't even started she was planning on throwing clothes into her bag when she got home from school tomorrow night before Lestrade arrived. She was taken aback by the question. Why was that important now? "Didn't think so," Sherlock answered for her, "might I suggest you go and pack. We will be returning to London once we have something to transport the finger in that Lestrade finds acceptable."

"I have work tomorrow," she replied feebly. She didn't feel like going to work but would persevere. Although she had to admit her determination not to let Moriarty get to her had been blown out of the water.

"Don't be difficult," Sherlock sounded bored.

John sighed, "What Sherlock means is that in the light of things it would better for you to come back with us today. It's only one day early."

"Fine," she didn't have the energy to argue further and trudged upstairs to pack her bag, "just give me time to sort everything out."

"Oh Harriet! There's some of your washing out on the line, I forgot to bring it in earlier. I'll fetch it," her mother said as she set her bone china tea cup onto the tray with a rattle.

"I'll do it!" she called back. The fresh air would do her some good and her mother was doing her duty as hostess. What Harriet really wanted a few minutes to herself to clear her head. Alone.

Harriet turned around and headed for the back door, she deliberately didn't look at the table where the package lay. The finger had been shoved into a plastic sandwich bag and placed in the fridge to preserve it. She grabbed the washing basket her mother had left on the garden table and padded across the grass in bare feet. Harriet yanked her shirts off the line first leaving the smaller items till last. She saw Sherlock close the back door behind him as she pulled the final shirt from the line. Panicking she tried to pull the underwear off quickly.

"I've seen them before," Sherlock stood in the shadow of the house, "you're lace knickers do not alarm me."

Harriet flushed a deep crimson, "that was different."

Sherlock smiled in amusement. He had also seen what was underneath the underwear but was wise enough not to comment aloud. John often thought that he didn't care for that sort of thing. He didn't but he did appreciate it.

"Lestrade has arranged for a police presence although I am not convinced of their competence," Sherlock had to steer his thoughts in the other direction.

"Thanks Sherlock. That's really reassuring," her reply was dry.

Sherlock's brow puckered in confusion, "I said the wrong thing, I apologise."

"No. I think you're right. From everything I've heard and seen I highly doubt a police officer outside is going to stop Moriarty do you?" Harriet continued to pick the objects from the line in the fading sun. "That doesn't mean to say that the police aren't good at their jobs." Harriet had the correct impression that Sherlock thought otherwise.

Sherlock let out a slight sigh despite what Lestrade said Anderson was not capable of his job. Not in the slightest. The man was a buffoon who'd got lucky in his career. His deliberate bashing of Anderson could wait for another day, Sherlock was on a mission.

Harriet dropped the last item into the basket, "are you just going to stand and watch me carry this?" Harriet already knew the answer, "feel free to pick up the peg bag for me." She hefted the basket into her arms and walked past the stoic detective. The peg bag remained hanging on the line.

Sherlock had not come outside to help. He was there to ask about the fiancé. The man had not been of any importance to him before now. Until Mycroft gave him something Harriet was his only source of information. Something had stopped him as he'd approach the occupied teacher. Why would someone willingly want to do something as menial as pick in the washing? Her mother had offered so why did she say otherwise? She was buying for time. Sherlock's mind was working overtime as he tried to process it all. Harriet didn't want to leave her mother although Sherlock couldn't fathom why anyone would want to stay around someone so annoying. She feared for her mother's safety although what she thought she could actually do about it was another matter entirely. The woman had no strength, certainly didn't possess the mind of a detective and was too emotional to have the upper hand should something happen but that wasn't all. There was more to it than buying for time. Sherlock turned around and followed her. She carried the basket up the stairs. He continued to follow her. John caught his eye as he passed the door to the living room. Sherlock paused before continuing on. It wasn't just concern for her mother, what was it?

Harriet heard his footsteps on the stairs behind her. She tipped the content of the basket onto her unmade bed. Her room was a mess. It wasn't the biggest of rooms and still had remnants of her childhood. Ticket stubs from the concerts she'd attended as a teenager and the photos of nights out with uni friends. The floor was barely visible beneath a wonky stack of fashion magazines and a pile of dirty clothes that hadn't quite made it to the wash basket.

"Hmmm," he made his favoured disapproving noise from the doorway. Harriet scooped the dirty clothes into her arm and dropped them into the now empty basket. It was a token effort at cleaning.

"Don't say anything, I've seen the state of your flat," she unplugged the hair straighteners; they were the first thing to go into her weekend bag. She continued to throw clothes into her bag as Sherlock took in every detail of her room. The colour on the walls was a pale yellow, her mother's choice clearly. There was a photo by her bed. A family photograph taken four years ago at a guess, although with Sherlock it was never a guess. A memory of her father.

Harriet headed for the door; Sherlock was stood in the way. Why had he followed her up? She knew he was scrutinising every detail of her room. Harriet was beyond caring whether or not he had an ulterior motive. "Sherlock what do you want?" her patience was wearing thin.

His eyes focussed in on Harriet, "I was curious."

"Right well, I need to get to the bathroom," Sherlock stepped into the room and let her pass. He could hear Harriet clattering about in the bathroom. A bottle dropped to the floor. Plastic. Shampoo. He had at least a minute before she returned. Sherlock was looking for any information he could find on the fiancé. There were no remnants of the man. He already knew that they had lived together in another house but surely she would have kept something from him? For sentimental purposes. It hadn't been bitter it was mutual split therefore there would be no resentment and no desire to burn everything that could possibly belong to him. There had to be something.

"Miss Thornton just stop will you," he insisted and grabbed her by the elbows as she bristled passed him in a rush.

"I need to pack my bag," Sherlock thought it was looking packed already. All the essentials were in there.

Harriet tried to wriggle free from his grip, "just give me one minute. I need to know more about him."

"I've told you everything I know about Moriarty," she retorted.

"Not Moriarty," was she being deliberately stupid, "your fiancé. I need to know why Moriarty would target him."

Harriet could feel the tears forming in her already puffy eyes, "because of me," they already knew this.

"No. No there's something more," he let go of her and opened her bed side draw in pursuit of results. She wasn't protesting or insulting him as he anticipated. Sherlock had expected to at least be called an arse, it was her favourite curse something he deduced early on. It was the death of her fiancé that had altered her behaviour, rather inconvenient. He was fond of the insufferable woman.

"I don't know what you want from me. I, I," Was this woman determined to cry on him? Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back around as he closed the draw.

"Moriarty is playing a game. Why? Why would someone so ordinary someone so boring catch the attention of Moriarty?" the questions weren't directed at anyone. He was thinking aloud.

"Just wait downstairs, I can't be dealing with you," Harriet interrupted his thoughts. She didn't like her ex-fiancé to be ordinary and boring he'd never struck her as that. Sherlock stood straighter and strode towards the door looking affronted. Harriet sunk down onto her bed. It was all too much to deal with.

"You loved him," Sherlock didn't know what love felt like. It was one of those sentiments he avoided like the plague, the plague and Mrs Hudson's beef casserole.

"I did once but just because I don't love him in the romantic sense anymore doesn't mean I still don't feel something but you wouldn't know what that is like," she let her hands fall to her sides.

"Alright," his reply was cautious. She didn't expect the same from him that she had from her fiancé. Was that disappointment he felt? Her expectations were lower.

"No you see that is exactly my point. You don't get it," she sighed and concentrated on the small amount of carpet that was showing through the clutter, it needed hovering, "but that's fine. I'm fine with that. In fact I think you're the wise one not to let yourself feel. In fact I wish I was more like you in that sense."

"No you don't," Sherlock was trying to figure out the right thing to say. He'd take a dead body any day of the week.

"Well its better than this," she gestured with her hands but it implied her life that was currently in tatters.

Sherlock turned back towards the bed and crouched in front of Harriet so he could catch her eyes. "Moriarty can be stopped. I will stop him. I don't," he looked away for a moment and his lips pursed together, "I don't like sentiments or feelings or emotions or any of that nonsense and yet you have caused me to experience them." The annoyance was clear in his voice. This was not something Sherlock Holmes was accustomed to. "Don't change. I am not someone to aim to be," Sherlock got to his feet and went downstairs. It was no use trying to get answers from the woman was experiencing temporary insanity. Harriet stared after the detective. She had just witnessed a rare moment of humanity in Sherlock Holmes.

Harriet eventually made it downstairs. She let her bag fall onto the tiled hallway floor with a resounding thud. A pair of rarely worn heels was dropped on top of the bag to complete her packing. She returned to the living room where discussion turned to the trial for her abduction. Harriet would have preferred to talk about anything except that. It made her feel sick to think she would have to relive it in her mind with the added mortification that she was retelling the horror to a court room full of people. She couldn't bear to see their pitying looks.

Once the police presence arrived, with a knock on the door that made both Harriet and her mother jump, Lestrade, John, Sherlock and Harriet were able to leave for London. Harriet was reluctant to say goodbye to her mother had promised to call her and keep her updated on the trial. She would be back by the weekend; it was only a few days.

The journey to London was silent. John had taken the front seat again leaving Sherlock in the back with Harriet. Harriet was trying to decipher the consultant detective's words between prayers that Dan was not lying dead in a ditch. She was not optimistic of this. His mother had been unable to contact him and the police had now posted a missing persons bulletin.

"So," Lestrade clapped his hands onto the steering wheel, "eye spy again?"

"Lestrade, there is no need to make conversation," Sherlock cast a glance at the detective inspector, "concentrate on the road. Please."

"You got Sherlock playing eye spy?" John was amazed.

Harriet smiled a sad smile at the memory, "he was terrible."

"I guessed correctly every time," Sherlock defended, "that is not terrible."

"You chose a ridiculous word for your turn," Lestrade glanced back at Sherlock.

"Of course he did," John chuckled.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi all, thanks for reading. I doubt I'll get chance to update until Friday because its observation week so I have to spend far too much time writing a lesson plan , everyone loves a box ticking exercise. <strong>

**JumperGuy- Haha I didn't like him either, that's why he didn't get a name until this chapter. I hadn't thought about him Moriarty's bitch but I'll definitely think about it. Could make things interesting. **

**xXxCastielxXx- Moriarty is definitely evil yet intriguing. I spent ages puzzling over what Sherlock would call Harriet instead of his girlfriend, I ended up googling (because that is the answer to all lives problems)**

**Gwilwillith- your reviews always make me smile :D**

**kie 1993 - definitely poor Harriet, I have been tormenting her too much. **


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

'_**All are lunatics, but he who can analyse his delusion is called a philosopher'**_

**Ambrose Bierce**

Harriet fell asleep on the way back to London the exhaustion of starting the new term and Moriarty's interference was more than enough. For the last three nights her sleep had been interrupted by texts from Sherlock and worry over appearing in court as a witness. Her head fell against Sherlock. He scowled at the woman and then Lestrade. Could he not have chosen a wider unmarked police car? An estate or even a Range Rover. No he had to think of the environment and fuel costs or rather his pension fund.

Lestrade pulled up outside 221B, "mind if I don't come in only the wife, she's cooking dinner."

"Oh, sorry. You should have said, I didn't mean to keep you from anything," Harriet felt bad that she had dragged him away from his evening.

"It will be bland at best," Sherlock evidently didn't.

"Yes well remind me not to invite you for dinner," Lestrade said his goodbyes and pulled away.

"He had to put up with you for two long journeys now and that is how you behave?" Harriet mumbled something under breath. Sherlock was fairly certain he heard the word arse.

"Shall we?" John pulled out his key. Harriet looked up at 221 Baker Street. It felt like years since she had seen it. The iconic black door stirred haunting memories in the teacher. She followed John over the threshold. Sherlock watched her intently. To anyone else it would seem like she was unaffected but he had picked up on the finer details. Slight falter in her step. Bowed head. All the signs were there of someone pretending something did not exist.

"Oh boys! I wondered where you disappeared to in a hurry. John there's a parcel for you," Mrs Hudson had popped her head out her flat, "Oh Harriet. I wasn't expecting you till tomorrow. Must have gotten my days mixed up. Getting old losing my memory you see."

"Mrs Hudson I can assure you that your mental faculties are perfectly in order. Harriet is staying an extra night. Not a problem I presume?" Sherlock

"I haven't made up her bed yet," Mrs Hudson was planning on asking John to get the spare mattress from upstairs to place in her living room.

"I intend for Miss Thornton to sleep with me," Sherlock took a few steps up the stairs. His statement was met with an awkward silence. Harriet had flushed red and Mrs Hudson didn't quite know what to say.

"Sherlock," John cleared his thought.

"Problem John?" Sherlock

Sherlock didn't get it or if he did he was choosing to be deliberately ignorant. Both were plausible. John didn't want to humiliate Harriet any further so he headed upstairs with Harriet's bag. God forbid Sherlock should offer to carry it.

"So I'm sleeping in your room," Harriet finally said as John disappeared into the kitchen.

"Yes. Mrs Hudson would not appreciate more socks left in her flat," he commented dryly.

Harriet spent a moment trying to figure that out, "socks?"

"She found my socks, I did tell you," Sherlock was not impressed with Harriet's forgetfulness. His text now made sense to Harriet.

Harriet curled up on the settee with her notebook and a textbook. She had a series of lessons to plan on medieval medicine. Sherlock was playing his violin, well more like showing off as he paced the flat at a slow pace. The violin didn't last long. Sherlock soon set it down and resumed his pacing at a quicker pace.

"Oh will you just stop," his pacing was driving Harriet nuts. Sherlock stopped. John blinked in surprise. He had just witnesses a miracle or something very close to. Sherlock Holmes had listened to someone for once in his life. "Go to St. Bart's and analyse Da-," Harriet cleared her throat unable to say his name, "the finger." Harriet didn't want him to feel as if he had to stay but then again who could actually make Sherlock Holmes do anything. Sherlock eyed the woman with caution. Was she just saying that? No, he had that figured out with one look at her. Sherlock didn't need telling twice and was out the door quicker than either John or Harriet expected.

"He was desperate to go," Harriet commented.

"I'm surprised he stayed this long," John smiled slightly.

The work was a distraction from her mind. She couldn't concentrate. Her thoughts kept drifting towards Dan. It was more than likely that he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. They'd had no news as of yet. John had said no news could be good news but it wasn't very comforting to Harriet. It filled her with guilt that she was thinking of her ex but surely Sherlock understood. Probably not.

Frustrated at her lack of concentration Harriet closed the textbook around her notebook and dropped it the floor with a satisfying slam only afterwards did she realise that Mrs Hudson was below. John looked up at Harriet, "it was annoying me," she clarified. "Look I'm going to go to bed," Harriet wanted an excuse to be alone. "Good night."

"Night Harriet," John answered with genuine concern for their guest.

Molly Hooper was working late. A car crash had called her in for an autopsy. The lab had been unusually quiet over the last few days. Sherlock unmistakably had no case.

"Ah Doctor Hooper. Is that a new shirt? It looks nice on you," Sherlock was all charm as he startled St. Bart's resident pathologist at the coffee machine.

"T-t-he labs empty," she flustered after his compliment and returned to getting coffee. She made sure to get a black one with two sugars for the detective.

"Thank you Molly," he stalked up to the lab. Lestrade had ensured the finger's arrival earlier that evening. Sherlock retrieved the finger. It was all he had until Mycroft gave him something useful.

Sherlock concentrated on the dirt under the fingernail like dirt on a shoe it could lead him directly to the fiancés last few movements. Mixing up chemicals and heating them filled the room with an interesting odour. "Good evening, Mycroft," Sherlock had recognised the entrance of the man by the pace at which he walked, the sound of his footsteps but most of all the clatter the umbrella made on the floor

"You always were one to make a mess," Mycroft referred to their childhood, "Doctor Hooper has a fancy for you shame she is unaware of your girlfriend."

Sherlock remained impassive. Mycroft was not going to get the better of him, "We both know you aren't here to make polite conversation. Do you have it?"

"Yes," Mycroft handed him the file. Sherlock took it without a thank you and immediately opened it. His brother was now forgotten.

_Daniel Barker. _

_27 years old_

_Parents- Frank and June Barker _

_Siblings- Robert Barker and Annie Jones (Married)_

_IT consultant for Blake Security Consultants_

_Previously engaged to Harriet Jane Thornton now separated_

_Educated at Gloucester Community College attended University of Gloucester graduating with a first in Information and Communication Systems._

The information continued for five more pages. Sherlock skimmed it all but found nothing of any significance. He still couldn't see why Harriet had been attracted to someone so dull. "You are going to a lot of trouble for this woman," Mycroft observed, "I have told you before caring is not an advantage."

"Who said I care?" Sherlock retorted. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock bristled and dismissed his brother with a snarky comment.

Harriet had changed into her pyjamas and was now stood near the door in Sherlock's room before getting in to bed she took in her surroundings. A periodic table hung on the wall, a set of draws sat against one wall and antique wardrobe against the other. The walls were papered and the room had a masculine feel with clean crisp sheets. It was functional. It was Sherlock.

Feeling like she was intruding Harriet pulled back the covers. What side was she supposed to sleep on? Was Sherlock going to be joining her in the bed? Left or right? Harriet took the left, furthest from the door. She had a feeling it was probably the wrong side and acknowledged that should Sherlock decide that he was going to sleep he would more than likely wake her and tell her to move to the other side. Harriet didn't have to worry about being woken. She couldn't sleep. With the lights off and covers pulled tight around her she broken down into tears. She had been thinking about the finger and that led to Dan. She no longer loved him in a romantic sense but had shared so much with him that it was impossible not to feel the heartbreak.

Sherlock spent the night at St. Bart's. He'd established that the fiancés last meal had been a cheeseburger, a double at McDonalds. The man had been in a hurry, a busy day leaving fast food as his only option. Evidence of high quality cotton from his hands inside his trouser suit pockets. It was nothing unusual. The man worked as an IT consultant for a security firm. There was nothing exciting in that. Why would Moriarty have an interest if it wasn't for Harriet? Had the fiancé been involved with Moriarty?

It was gone four in the morning when Sherlock left the lab. The equipment was left out although he did at least turn it off. The lab had to be as it was when he left if he wished to continue using it. It was a rule Molly had put in place. Sherlock was not impressed and very rarely cleaned up after himself so Molly with her school girl crush diligently cleaned up after him. It was something he never felt guilty about. Sherlock had needed to be out by six in the morning before the first shift of the day. There was an intern that was always first in. Annoying weed of a man that only needed to breathe to be irritating.

Sherlock stepped out into the street. He hailed a cab that smelt of booze and cigarettes its last inhabitant had only recently departed the cab after what was blaringly obvious a night out. Sherlock paid the cabbie and headed into 221 Baker Street. He didn't bother to turn on the lights he knew the house like the back of his hand.

The upstairs flat was deserted. Sherlock needed to think. He grabbed the half empty box of nicotine patches from the bookshelf where they had been moved out of reach of Mrs Hudson's cleaning. Slapping three to his arm he unceremoniously dropped onto the settee with his hands pressed together resting on his chin.

Moriarty. The fiancé. Moriarty. The fiancé. It went backwards and forwards in his head. Was it all so he could break Harriet to get to him? That would insinuate that he cared for the woman. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh with the realisation that it was no longer worth the effort to deny. He cared for Harriet. 'Caring is not an advantage,' his brothers words haunted his thoughts. He was at a disadvantage with Moriarty. How? How could he take the advantage?

Harriet had slept poorly. She's tossed and turned and ended up with a headache. As dawn poked through the gap in the curtains Harriet decided enough was enough and flung back the covers. She had slowly closed the bedroom door behind her as quietly as she could and went through to the living room. Sherlock was lying on the settee with his eyes closed. Harriet assumed he was asleep and was hurt that he had felt he had to sleep on it. It couldn't be comfortable for his tall lanky frame. As quietly as she could she pulled her book from underneath a newspaper that had been cast aside earlier.

"If you were attempting to be quiet because I appear to be asleep then you are doing a poor job of it," he didn't make an effort to move. Harriet had almost leapt out of her skin at the sound of his voice.

"Good morning Harriet. How are you? Did you sleep okay?" he received a sarcastic response to his criticism. Harriet recovered quick enough and went into the kitchen to switch the kettle on which is what she had wanted to do all along. She took a mug from the draining board and placed it by the kettle with a heavy hand, if he didn't like the noise well tough.

Sherlock opened both his eyes and turned his head towards the kitchen. He got to his feet and walked behind Harriet into his room. Harriet had already made her mark on his room. Her bag spilled out onto the floor and her shoes were left in the middle of the room, even the sheets were a tangled state but Sherlock had become aware of this the first time they had shared a bed. His room, his sanctuary had been infiltrated by a female. By the time he had slipped off his blazer and donned his favourite dressing gown a steaming cup of black coffee with two sugars was sitting on the kitchen worktop for him. He picked the mug up and returned to the settee in the living room which Harriet had curled up on one end of.

Sherlock took note of the puffy red eyes and scowl no doubt from a headache. He abandoned his plan to manipulate Harriet into answers. It would result in tears and he did not want a crying woman on his hands again. She wasn't reading the book in her hands. It was open but in the space of ten silent minutes not a single page had been turned.

Eventually Harriet closed her book and took her half-drunk coffee with her to the bedroom. When she returned fully dressed after a hot shower and feeling more respectful she sat down at the small table in the living room where John had placed a stack of toast, "help you," he informed her. Sherlock had returned to pacing.

"I've been deducing," her comment was offhand.

"Oh?" Sherlock invited her to continue.

"Yes. I've done that thing," she gestured with her hand, "that you do."

"You don't know how," he replied.

"I've done it my way," she snapped back.

"Then you haven't done that thing I do," he stared impassively at Harriet.

Harriet had to pause in her thought, "I've deduced and that is what you do."

"Go on," Sherlock had to admit he was curious to where it was leading.

"Oh god, please just stop," John got up and left for the kitchen. He had been meaning to make a cup of tea. Their flirting, for want of a better word where Sherlock was concerned, was enough of a motivator

"I'm a teacher," she took a bite of toast.

"That is what you have deduced?" Sherlock's tone was one of disbelief. He'd never thought her that stupid.

Harriet ignored him and continued, "As a teacher I pick up on certain types of behaviour. You were sat on the edge of your seat earlier and now you are pacing. The kids can't sit still when there's something interesting or exciting going on. They are on the edge of their seats or barely sat on them with their hands in the air eager to prove themselves."

"Very good," Sherlock stopped his pacing to compliment her and then continued to wear away the carpet.

"I also know what you are eager to find out," her voice took on a sombre tone, "you want to know about him."

"That is correct," Sherlock wasn't going to deny it. He had spent most of his time at Bart's trying to figure out a way to ask the woman that would result in the fewest tears or sentiment.

Harriet looked down at her empty plate, "I don't know what you want me to say. We were engaged, he proposed. I'd known him for a while and was good friends with him before we started dating. It was normal."

"Did he ever say anything or do anything to make you suspect something was up? What about behaviour? Did he suddenly start coming home late or skip out on what I can only imagine were pleasant Sunday lunches in your mothers company?"

"You can't help yourself can you?" Harriet got to her feet to barricade herself in Sherlock's room until she had calmed down. This was difficult enough without him being an arse about it.

"I apologise Miss Thornton," his apology was sincere. He had been carried away as if it was a normal case.

Harriet turned to look up at Sherlock, "I never noticed anything. I wasn't looking for anything." Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "Everything was good, fine. His work was going well. I thought I loved him and I did for a time but it was too ordinary and normal. It made me happy for a while but I couldn't live that life for ever," Harriet felt she had offered far more than she had needed to. "Does that help?"

"Hmmm," was all Sherlock had to say as he headed for the window.

Harriet pushed the chair back, "I don't want normal. Teaching keeps me on my toes but it wasn't enough."

"But I am?" he turned around.

Harriet slowly stepped around the table and once she was close enough she reached up with her hand to rest it on Sherlock's cheek. Leaning closer she placed a kiss to his cheek, "I can't deny that you haven't kept me on my toes. Moriarty is too much though. He's killed someone innocent to get to you through me. I'm running out of things to take from me so just stop him." Harriet didn't stay around Sherlock but he knew where she had gone. She was in his room crying.

* * *

><p><strong>Week is over! Errgh. Training course tomorrow so night off from the work. Thanks to everyone who's been reading. Going to get the court case out of the way next chapter and some other stuff. <strong>

**Gwilwillith- Sherlock is such a complex character, definitely a challenge to write. I'm sure it'll be okay for them eventually :P **

**kie 1993- I love John's comments, you have to have a sense of humor to deal with Sherlock. **

**88dragon06- some of the parts were my favourite to write, as John says Sherlock will outlive god trying to have the last word. **

**chironsgirl- I loved your review. Sometimes even I wonder how I find the time to write but it helps me to unwind after a busy day and gives me a break from all the marking. I try to get everything done in school so I've got something to look forward to when I get home.**

**xXxCastielxXx- Wow! Your review just made my night, thank you! So glad you think Sherlock's in character :D**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

'_**It always gets darkest just before it gets totally black'**_

**Charlie Brown**

John could hear Harriet's muffled sobs from the kitchen. "You do that?" he called to Sherlock whilst gesturing with his thumb to Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Nope," Sherlock drew the word out as he sat down at the table to flick through the paper.

"Sherlock!" John chided.

"What part of nope do you not believe?" Sherlock flicked his eyes dangerously towards John. Their conversation was not something he wanted to share with the army doctor.

"It's you. Why would I believe that you are not the cause of Harriet being upset?" John heard the kettle finish boiling but abandoned his tea making for now.

"John," the detective carefully folded the newspaper, "Miss Thornton has just lost someone she once felt _sentiment_ towards. Her abduction, the trial and Moriarty are also limiting her ability to behave in a rational manner." John was not stupid. He already knew this fact.

"Are you not going to see if she is alright?" John wondered for a moment.

"No," Sherlock replied.

"You will lose her," John turned on his heel and returned to making tea. He also made Harriet a coffee and deliberately ignored Sherlock's request for a tea.

Sherlock scoffed at the thought of losing Harriet. It wasn't going to happen, was it? No because he kept her on her toes she'd said it herself. The only way he could lose her was if Moriarty played a part but Sherlock would stop him before it came to that. He was sure of it.

With both mug handles in one hand John knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door, "Harriet?" John heard shuffling and the door opened. "Coffee?" he held the cups up.

"Thanks," Harriet appreciated the gesture and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I don't think Sherlock is the type to want to be in the company of an overly emotional wreck, do you?" Harriet looked up at John. John had two choices. He could comfort Harriet and say that Sherlock wanted to be there for her but that wasn't realistic. His other option was to tell her the truth. Harriet wiped her eyes on her torn tissue and smiled, "don't worry I know what you're going to say and its okay."

"Right. That's good," she seemed to be genuinely okay with the matter.

"I'll be fine in a bit just needed to get it out of my system," she said feebly, "he just wanted to know about Dan."

"Ah. He's not the most considerate of others feelings," John sat down next to Harriet.

"He did pass comment on my mother's Sunday roasts, not that he has ever been to one," Harriet could at least see the funny side of it.

"Of course he did," John also shared the amusement and was glad to see Harriet smiling.

His stomach let out a rumble, "and that is my cue to leave." Harriet laughed. "Listen, if you ever want to talk then I'm all ears," it was an offer that Harriet appreciated greatly. With a final wipe of her eyes Harriet went for a shower to wash away the emotion.

Once John heard Harriet close the bathroom door he returned to the living room, "I should send you in there. She is your girlfriend." John was disappointed that his friend had not at least tried to be attentive to her needs.

"She is not my girlfriend," Sherlock retorted.

John was aware of his toast getting cold in the toaster, "for god's sake Sherlock! Girlfriend, partner, significant other they are all the same thing."

John tried his best to ignore the detective for the best part of the morning but with Harriet there it was hard not to engage in conversation. Lestrade called around mid-day to provide an update on her missing ex and some advice for the court proceedings the following day. John had also been helpful with this matter. Harriet was nervous she had never been to court before unlike John and Sherlock who had been far too many times.

"Do you mind if I cook tonight?" Harriet asked the consultant detective, she was running out of things to occupy her mind. John had been updating his blog for some time and Sherlock was engaged in some sort of internet search.

Sherlock regarded her for a moment, "by all means."

"Any ideas?" John asked. He thought it was for the best that she keeps busy before the trial to keep her mind occupied.

"It's going to be a surprise," she announced proudly.

"Hmmm, no. Its stir fry," Sherlock didn't bother to look up from laptop.

"How could you possibly know that?" John challenged as far as he was aware Harriet had only just proposed the idea.

"Miss Thornton has left a page open in her magazine detailing a recipe for a stir fry. As ever John you see but do not observe," Sherlock returned to his search. Harriet felt self-conscious, how long had been watching her?

Sherlock closed his laptop and got to his feet, "where are you going?" John asked.

"Out," the detective replied, "stay with Miss Thornton." His next line of enquiry was the security firm that the fiancé had worked for. Their main headquarters was based within the vicinity of Canary Wharf. Once outside he hailed a taxi and mulled over his thoughts. Harriet hadn't told him anything new, the file Mycroft gave him had been limited in its ability to further his investigations. The place of work was the next logical step.

The office building for Blake Security Consultants was a sophisticated sleek glass office block just like the many others in the area. Sherlock strode purposely through the doors and up to the receptionist. Blonde. Pink pencil skirt. Decorated nails. Botox. Sherlock smiled wide. This would be easy. "Hi, good afternoon Miss?"

"Miss Beckett, how can I help you sir?" she batted her mascara clad eyelashes.

"I wondered if it would be possible to make an appointment, you see my father is getting on in years and is worried for his safety at home," the woman smiled in awe at the concern the man in front of her was showing for his elderly father. Of course it was all an act on Sherlock's part.

"Certainly sir. When are you available?" Sherlock observed the woman, her pupils had dilated and her cheeks had a pink tinge.

"Sooner rather than later, I'm sure you understand my concern," Sherlock had to bite back a smile he was going for the deal clincher, "after my mother passed away, god bless her, he really has no one."

"He has you, I'm sure you do everything in your power to help him," he had her hook line and sinker.

"I try," he replied somewhat sadly.

The woman searched through the diary, "how about Monday at two?"

"That would be perfect, thank you," Sherlock gave a fake name and with a cheerful good bye left the building with his hands in his pockets. His right hand rested on a plastic card. A pass card. It would get him into the building when there were fewer people around. His visit had been child splay. Her pass card had been left in plain sight on the desk.

Harriet had rummaged through the freezer to find some chicken to put in the stir fry. There hadn't been any. In fact there had been very little of anything just a few frozen peas and an out of date tub of ice cream. The food contents was low but there were all manner of things tucked away in the draws of the freezer. A bag of toes sat forgotten at the back of the top draw and a selection of test tubes filled the entire third draw. Eventually Harriet found a freezer bag of dark red meat. Beef would have to do. It defrosted on the side for most of the afternoon.

By four in the afternoon Harriet had started cooking. Mrs Hudson had popped up during the afternoon to clean the flat and refused to let Harriet help. Harriet made tea and biscuits instead and chatted with Mrs Hudson about everything and nothing. It helped take her mind off the impending case.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street and walked straight into the kitchen. He had to find the rest of the fiancés body; it was a case like any other. He didn't eat on a case yet the sizzling pan smelt good. His stomach made a small protest at being ignored. Sherlock stood directly behind Harriet and leaned over her shoulder as she fried the beef, "Hmmm," he made a disapproving noise.

"What is it?" She was offended that he thought so little of her cooking.

"I wouldn't eat that," he commented.

"Why?" she asked wondering what on earth he would have to complain about.

"It's not beef," he stepped back in anticipation of her response.

"But it's," apparently the penny hadn't dropped yet.

"Human Miss Thornton," Harriet stared down at the browning read meat. She had just cooked a human.

"Oh god," she stepped away from the cooker in horror, "I'm a cannibal." Sherlock rolled his eyes at her stupidity. "Why do you have human flesh in your freezer?"

"Experiments," it was an obvious answer to Sherlock. It was as if he expected every household freezer to have some kind of frozen body part.

"Wish I hadn't asked," Harriet tipped the contents of the frying pan into the bin, "this is going to cost you dinner," she pointed at him with an accusing finger and went to tell John.

"John, Sherlock has kindly offered to take us out to dinner tonight," Harriet announced.

John couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, "are we talking about the same Sherlock?"

"Relax John. I have not offered anything yet it appears I have no other choice unless you would rather have human stir fry instead?" Sherlock had followed her in her search for the army doctor.

"Ah," John cast an eye on Harriet who looked disgusted, "that wasn't beef." He couldn't help it he laughed with the shake of his head. Harriet smiled wide now finding amusement and even Sherlock showed the briefest of amused smiles.

Within an hour the three were sat in Angelo's. "So going to tell us where you went today?" John started the conversation.

"I went to Blake's Security Consultants," Sherlock took the security pass card from his pocket and waved it in front of John. Harriet stiffened. Dan had worked a lot from home but the company's headquarters were in London.

"What did you find?" she asked quietly.

Sherlock put the card away, "nothing yet." Harriet didn't hide her disappointment. She wanted answers as much as Sherlock.

Harriet ordered a pasta dish and John had a pizza. Sherlock ordered nothing. John spent most of the meal explaining to Harriet about previous days in court that he had been too. Harriet was not surprised to hear that Sherlock had been dismissed on several occasions before the end of the trial she was even surprised to hear that John had an asbo. Despite John's best efforts to take away the worry she was still nervous. Her interview suit had been bought with her and she had consulted with a friend who was a solicitor. It was still daunting. She didn't want to share her horrific experience with a court room full of people. The abduction still plagued her from time to time. Her bruises had faded but there were times when she was alone that it crept into her thoughts.

Sherlock had observed Harriet intently as he explained about his visit to Blake's Security. There was no indication that Harriet thought anything on the security firm; she just considered them the company her fiancé had worked for. Sherlock hadn't expected her to hide anything from him but it was his job to make sure. Sentiment was involved and it clouded his judgement.

With dinner over the three walked back to Baker Street. Harriet passed through the front door with her usual hidden trepidation, well hidden to all but Sherlock. The TV was switched on and the three sat down to watch the Apprentice. Harriet was addicted to the show. John watched from his arm chair whilst Harriet and Sherlock sat on the settee. Harriet had tucked her legs beneath her and curled up against Sherlock. The detective took a moment to adjust to this new situation. John had a hint of smile at the consultant's obvious discomfort. Sherlock had no problem resting an arm around Harriet. What he had a problem with was their audience. John was definitely finding amusement in it. For John but it was nice to know that there was someone else important in Sherlock's life.

"The project manager is fired," Sherlock had no care for names. The contestants from the losing team were sat in the board room all arguing their case to stay in the running.

"Has it occurred to you-" John began.

"Probably not," Sherlock interrupted.

John sighed before ploughing on regardless, "Has it occurred to you that other people might like to figure it for themselves?"

"He will fire the project manager. It's obvious," Sherlock frowned at the TV's predictability.

"To you maybe," Harriet grumbled under her breath she personally thought the suave pharmaceuticals salesman was going. As it turned out Sherlock was right.

Harriet went to bed early with the hope a good night's sleep would give her strength for the trial the following day. Sherlock waited for a few minutes. He anticipated what John was going to say and went to join Harriet.

The woman in question was pulling back the bed sheets as Sherlock opened the door to the bedroom and slipped in ensuring it was closed behind him. The young teacher looked up in surprise after expecting him to stay awake all night doing lord knows what. Sherlock slid his blazer off and hung it on the door handle of the wardrobe. Harriet realised he was joining her as he began to unbutton the white shirt he had been wearing. She slid between the sheets and she fussed around with the alarm on her phone to avoid looking at the now shirtless Sherlock. It was difficult not to look. Her gaze slid to him on more than one occasion. Was he deliberately out to make this difficult for her? What an arse.

The trousers were off and oh god he was reaching for his boxers. Harriet had to concentrate on sending a text to her mother to let her know that she was okay and would call her tomorrow. When she looked back to Sherlock he had pulled on dark grey pyjama bottoms and a cotton t-shirt in a lighter grey.

After spending one night alone Harriet was expecting it for a second night in a row. She wasn't expecting the consultant detective to join her least of all for sleep. It crossed her mind that he was doing it because he felt he had to. With this in mind Harriet decided to let him suffer if that was the case. She didn't want him to do something because he felt he had to maybe he would learn not to.

Like the first time they had shared a bed together Sherlock lay out flat on his back with his limbs pressed against his body as if he was afraid to reach out and touch the woman in his bed. Harriet rolled onto her side to face the detective even in the dark she could still make out his prominent features. "You should sleep," Sherlock was aware of the woman watching him even with his eyes closed.

"I know," she sounded defeated.

Sherlock reached out with his hand to clasp hers. It was a movement that took a lot of effort on his part. He'd had sexual intercourse with the woman but couldn't hold her hand. His mind was in control not his body. Harriet shuffled closer so their bodies were touching and closed her eyes. Knowing that Sherlock was lying next to her in the bed kept away the niggling fear that Moriarty could do anything.

Harriet shifted slightly in her sleep. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. He was waiting for John to fall asleep. As soon as he knew that he was he would be out the door. The toilet flushed and doors opened and closed. Forty five minutes later Sherlock slipped back into his clothes and left the flat. He would be in for it from both Harriet and John if he wasn't there in the morning. Harriet trusted him enough to fall into a comfortable sleep and he'd deserted her. Guilt began to creep up on him. Sherlock shook off the feeling and cast aside the sentiment. He had a case to solve.

With the lights off Blake's Security Consultancy was an imposing dark mass on the night sky. A security guard sat behind the reception instead of the well groomed lady from earlier. Sherlock entered and the security guard looked up in surprise. The consultant detective and master of disguise smiled apologetically, "sorry to startle you mate. Left my memory stick. You know how it is important client with an impossible deadline. Girlfriend all but strung me up for working all night." The last part wasn't entirely a lie on Sherlock's part. He smiled knowing exactly what Harriet would say in that situation. It certainly involved a few curses.

"Know the feeling. I've got a wife. Wants to go here for dinner this week, wants that dress, oh Peter buy me that diamond necklace," the security guard didn't check the image on the screen as the pass card was swiped. There was no rejection noise and that was all that mattered.

"But we wouldn't be able to function without them," Sherlock laughed and entered through the door his face once again becoming impassive.

According to the information board near the lift he wanted the eighth floor for the IT specialists. Sherlock stepped out of the lift, the music grating on his nerves, and strolled into the deserted corridor. He meandered down the hall checking doors for the ideal office to use. The office he chose belonged to man who had pictures of his wife and family plastered over every available wall and surface. Sherlock sat down at the computer. He flicked his way through post it notes on the desk until he came across a list of names relating to family. Notes to pick up such and such for such and such. Thingy needed this. Pointless things the man obviously cared out but caring was not an advantage. This man had cared about his family to the point that they were without a doubt the password to his computer. Sherlock waited for the computer to start up and entered in the names he'd come across. Password accepted.

The desktop appeared littered with files. Sherlock opened the search function and typed in the fiancés full name. According to the reports saved on the shared area his recent project had been that belonging to a Richard Brook. There was nothing on the folder to indicate any involvement with Moriarty. Disappointed Sherlock logged off and left the office.

"Did you get it then?" the security guard called.

"What? Oh, yes," Sherlock almost let the mask slip as he processed his findings.

"Cheer up, sure the girlfriend won't be that bad when you get home," thankfully the security guard had put it down to something else. Sherlock left the building and got a taxi back to Baker Street.

Back at Baker Street its inhabitants were still asleep allowing Sherlock to creep back in. He didn't return to the bed with Harriet but did open the door to check she was still sleeping soundly. Sherlock closed the door and sat down in his chair. Was he looking for something that wasn't there? He found no connection between the fiancé and Moriarty. Of course there could be something buried deeper but it was more likely that Moriarty had ordered him to be killed with the sole intention of breaking Harriet and he was doing a fine job. Had it been anyone other than Harriet then Sherlock would have applauded him.

The following morning Harriet awoke to an empty bed but didn't mind. She hadn't expected the consultant detective to stay the night. With purpose she put her suit on ensuring her pencil skirt was crease free. Shrugging on the jacket she took a deep breath and left the bedroom. She made an effort to have some breakfast despite her stomachs protests. With a slice of toast and a coffee Harriet sat at the table in the living room the kitchen one being hidden beneath one of Sherlock's experiments. She was about to take a bite when the slice was snatched from her hand. Harriet looked up at the consultant detective who smirked down at her. "You insufferable arse," she reached up to take it back not caring that he had already taken a bite. He held it high as she got to her feet. Crumbs fell onto her clean suit. She brushed them off as Sherlock stuffed the rest of the slice into his mouth. John chuckled and put another slice into the toaster.

"Thank you," Harriet stepped closer to him.

"What for?" the smirk had disappeared to be replaced by confusion. He didn't remember doing anything worthy of a thank you.

Harriet paused for a moment. This was about to go one of two ways, "for trying to take my mind off the trial," she reached up with a slight smirk and kissed him full on the lips in front of John.

"Right, okay I'll errrr just leave you to it," John took his toast into his room to finish getting ready.

Sherlock who had initially stiffened relaxed and put an arm around her waist. She had genuinely surprised him.

Harriet filed into the courtroom with Sherlock and John she heard a distinctive whisper from John aimed at Sherlock, "behave." It did little to calm her nerves. Harriet sat down and fiddled with one of the many tissues she had stashed on her person in her hand. Sherlock reached out and placed a hand over hers to still them. They were annoying. Harriet put the tissue away and instead fiddled with the hem of her suit jacket.

"All stand," the usher's voice silenced the chattering court room. Once the judge had sat down the court returned to their seats leaving the defendant standing. Harriet couldn't look at Cash. She was being ridiculous and kept her head bowed not wanting to see the pitying looks or sorrowful shakes of the head. The clerk read out the names of the case, the defendant and lawyers to the judge. He then proceeded to read out the charges. Harriet stiffened as her name was read out, all eyes were on her. John squeezed her hand in a sort of brotherly affection. Sherlock eyes flicked down at John's hand.

The charges were read out by the clerk, "Do you understand that?"

"Yes," Cash answered. Harriet was frozen to the spot at hearing his voice again.

"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the clerk asked.

Harriet finally plucked up the courage to look up at Cash a malicious smile spread across his face, "not guilty." The judge asked the defendant to sit and the prosecution made their opening speech.

"Your Honour, I now call Miss Harriet Thornton," Harriet had to be encouraged by John to stand. She was nervous. Her heels echoed on the tiled floor as the usher lead her to the witness box. She was sworn in. Her voice was quiet and lacked its usual presence. Harriet swallowed nervously as the prosecution took up its first question. Her voice faltered and stuttered as she was examined by the prosecution. John nodded encouragingly at her whilst Sherlock remained his usual stoic self. "Thank you. I have no further questions but please stay there as my learned friend may have some questions for you," the prosecution sat down. The defence lawyer got to his feet and cross-examined her. He spooked Harriet with his haunting eyes and slicked back hair. The man was creepy and reminded her of Moriarty but it wasn't him. His questions were tough and on more than one occasion Harriet had to pause to bite down on her lip to stop herself from collapsing into tears. "I have no further questions, Your Honour," the defence sat down with a smug look.

Harriet made to step from the stand, "Miss Thornton I'm sorry but may I ask you stay for just a few more minutes I have a question for you," embarrassed that she had moved without being told she returned to her spot for the judge's question.

The day came to a close after further witnesses from the prosecution. Lestrade, Donovan, Sherlock and John had all taken a turn in the stand. John had surprised that Sherlock had behaved himself. The defence still had to put forward its cause the following day. Harriet went to straight to bed when she got back to Baker Street. She was exhausted. Sherlock John sat in the living room and filled Mrs Hudson in on the day's progress. Harriet wanted to ask Sherlock to join her. The bed felt lonely but she wasn't going to lower herself to pleading with him when he clearly didn't want to.

The young teacher didn't realise she'd been shaking until she sat down between Sherlock and John in the courtroom the following morning. The consultant detective didn't move whereas John smiled reassuringly. Harriet listened to proceedings but couldn't face the courtroom again. The floor tiles had claimed her full attention.

Cash was the next to take the stand. He showed no remorse as he was examined by the defence and cross-examined by the prosecution. The slime of a man laughed in the face of the prosecution. Harriet felt sick. It was too much for her, she made to stand but Sherlock had anticipated her move and placed his hand firmly on her leg to keep her seated, "Sherlock, please," she begged.

"Remain seated Miss Thornton," was all he said. Harriet surrendered to him. His hand remained on her leg in his mind for comfort but Harriet's distressed mind didn't relate this action to typical Sherlock behaviour.

It was torturous. The wounds inflicted on her were talked about in detail and Cash took great pleasure in describing how he enjoyed her screams. Harriet couldn't take it anymore and a tear dropped from her cheek onto Sherlock's hand. He looked down at it and sighed. Forgetting the tissues she'd bought with her she wiped her cheek with her hand and sniffed quietly.

Closing speeches were made and the judge made a short speech summarising the case with instructions for the jury to retire. Harriet was out of the court room quicker than a bolt of lightning. She made a beeline for the loos and locked herself in a cubicle. She wasn't going to cry but needed to be away from the stares.

When she stepped from the bathroom John was ready with a bottle of water and a bar of chocolate. She didn't have the heart to tell him her stomach couldn't take it but thanked him nonetheless. Sherlock was talking with Lestrade at the other end of the foyer. "You're doing fine," John reassured her. Harriet nodded and picked the label from the bottle of water.

Twenty minutes passed. Harriet prayed that he was found guilty and sentenced to imprisonment. The murders and abduction would put him away for life.

"Have you considered your verdict?" the clerk addressed the jury once the court was called back.

An elderly woman got to her feet, "yes," she confirmed.

"Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?" the courtroom sat in suspended silence.

"Guilty," the words rang out to muttered comments from the court. Harriet was flooded with relief and slumped in her seat. It was one less think for her to worry about.

"The court will now consider the sentence that is appropriate," the judge's voice boomed over the court.

John and Sherlock had discussed the trial on their way home from the court room. Harriet had sat silently. Mrs Hudson pulled her into a hug as soon as she stepped over the threshold to Baker Street. John and Sherlock informed Mrs Hudson of the result. Well John informed her Sherlock passed snarky comments. He was no longer interested in a case once it was solved. The trials were boring at best. Finally Mrs Hudson allowed them to go upstairs.

Harriet changed out of her suit immediately and settled down in front of the television whilst they waited for John to return with the Chinese they ordered. Harriet ate most of her dinner as her stomach rumbled after a day without food. John's eyes as a doctor spurred her on to clear her plate. Even Sherlock had something to eat.

"I'm glad today turned out as expected," John and Harriet washed the dished together.

"Mmmm but Moriarty is still out there," Harriet answered as she dried the plates.

"Sherlock will stop him. Don't think otherwise," John was so sure and Harriet was hopeful but he had killed her fiancé what was to stop him from doing it again? They settled in for another night of Sherlock yelling at everything on the television. In the end John gave up and took his book to bed. He was deliberately manipulating the situation so that they were alone. John had been frustrated with the consultant detective for the past two days. Any normal person in a relationship would have been solid rock for the other person to rely on but Sherlock had been far from that. He had been detached from the whole affair and was more interested in picking apart every member of the court room to keep himself occupied. He'd never said it aloud but John had been to enough trials with Sherlock to know that it almost went without saying.

"You have been distant since the trial started," Harriet pounced on Sherlock as soon as John's bedroom door shut.

"I was under the impression that you understood," Sherlock's voice oozed boredom.

"I was but this is different," Sherlock decided not to retort with a witty remark. He didn't understand the female mind and judging by his multiple failed attempts at a relationship neither did John.

"I apologise," he sat down next to her with his arms resting on his knees. Harriet shuffled closer but didn't touch him. His apologise had no meaning.

"Sherlock, I want you to understand that the last two days have been the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I had to look into the eyes of the board that abducted me all because of a ridiculous game that you have entered into with Moriarty. You have barely said ten words to me since we stepped into the cab yesterday but I needed you. I'm not expecting you to be boyfriend-"

"Significant other," Sherlock interrupted.

Harriet sighed, "I'm not expecting you to be significant other of the year. Just some indication that you cared about what I was feeling."

"I do care," he answered her.

"Yeah well, it didn't seem like it. You made me sit there when I wanted to leave," sentiment crept up on Sherlock again and tugged at him. He had not considered how she felt but instead stopped her from performing such a cowardly act.

"If you had left you would have continued to receive those pitying looks that you despise," Sherlock had pushed himself to his feet sensing dangerous territory.

Harriet was speechless. In his own way he had cared. "Miss Thornton I have observed you all day. Bowed head. Unable to make eye contact. Quiet voice. Those are all indications of someone not wanting to be the centre of attention. Am I wrong?"

Harriet sighed, "No." The detective returned to the settee but didn't sit down he knelt down in front of Harriet and brushed the hair from her face. Sherlock didn't need an excuse to put the findings of his previous experiments into action. He brushed his thumb against her cheek as she grabbed at his shirt pulling closer. Harriet was at the end of rationality. She kissed him hard on the lips. The day had taken its toll and left her with a desire to be close to Sherlock. She was seeking comfort in what they were about to do. Harriet needed him.

"We should move," Harriet spoke breathlessly. The buttons on Sherlock's shirt had been undone and her t-shirt was dishevelled before they even made it to the bedroom.

Harriet lay with her head resting on Sherlock's bare chest, "There was no connection between your fiancé and Moriarty," Sherlock spoke.

Harriet sighed and shifted her head so she could catch his eyes, "you're bringing this up now?"

"Yes," he stated.

"You are unbelievable," she moved off him and turned over to face the wall, "good night Sherlock." Sherlock was baffled; didn't she expect him to share thoughts? He was under the distinct impression that a relationship entailed such behaviour. She shrugged his hand off that had reached out for her shoulder. He would ask John tomorrow, he would know what to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright so long chapter :D I'm away next weekend for my birthday so chances are I won't be able to update but hopefully this makes up for it. If I finish the next chapter before the weekend then I will post it but I need to finish all my planning for the following monday. Thanks to everyone is reading. Oh and I went shopping yesterday and was amused by a biscuit tin that said Baking Street in the style of a London street sign pointless bit of info but made me think of Sherlock. Thank you all for your reviews. <strong>

**xXxCastielxXx- John's reactions are brilliant definitely the best way to deal with Sherlock. **

**Lady Nightlord- Absolutely love your review. Hard is one way of putting it for writing Sherlock, sometimes he's a pain in the arse to write. **

**Gwilwillith- I don't want to rush their relationship but slowly they are getting there. Glad you like it. **

**88dragon06- trust Sherlock not to consider the connotations of his sleeping comment. **

**kie 1993- there's more John in this chapter :D **


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

'_**As a matter of self-preservation, a man needs good friends or ardent enemies, for the former instruct him and the latter take him to task'**__**  
><strong>_**Diogenes**

"John you are a male who is familiar with correct protocol with a female," Sherlock had been awake long before John. With his dressing gown on he sat in the living room ready to pounce on John.

"Excellent observation Sherlock," John didn't like where this was going as he eyed the pyjama clad detective. It was never a good sign when he spent half of his day in this fashion his dramatic mood would get taken out on something, "get to the point." John had only just awoken. A dose of sulking Sherlock was never a good thing on an empty stomach then again it was never a good thing on a full one either.

"It appears that during sexual-"

"Oh god Sherlock no! Just no!" John covered his ears.

"You know I don't like to be interrupted," Sherlock's words were cold.

John was mentally disturbed at the thought of his friend having sex with anyone, "Just. No." It was not a topic open for conversation.

"I have no problem discussing a perfectly normal act of nature," Sherlock

"You might not but other people do," John lowered his hands from his ears.

"I will skip over the details then," he hurriedly snapped, "a _relationship_," There was the usual distaste of the word "requires the sharing of frivolities. I informed Miss Thornton that there was no connection between her fiancé and Moriarty after sex-."

"Alright I get it. You are classing that as a frivolous issue? Actually, no, "John diverted his outrage to the real issue, "you bring her missing, suspected dead fiancé up after," John waved his hand hoping Sherlock was following.

"Not good?" Sherlock turned to military doctor, "and it's ex fiancé."

"No. That is not good," John walked into the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock wasn't finished.

John placed a few slices of bread into the toaster and ignored his friend. He then flicked the kettle on. Without answers Sherlock followed John into the kitchen getting in his way as he made breakfast. "Take this to Harriet and apologise," John had placed toast and coffee onto a small tray.

Sherlock Holmes was a lot of things. Butler was not one of them. Did John really expect him to take Harriet breakfast in bed? Sherlock looked towards his closed bedroom door and with a sigh he picked up the tray. Harriet was still sleeping soundly tangled in the bed sheets. His hands were full so he couldn't give her a gently shake to wake her up. With his right foot he kicked the door shut as he balanced the tray. She stirred but didn't wake up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Miss Thornton," he announced his presence. Still no reaction. Annoyed he placed the tray on the set of draws, the china clinking together, and opened his wardrobe door pulling out a clean shirt. He closed the door without concern for the sleeping woman in his bed causing the coat hangers to rattle.

"S-Sherlock?" she stretched ensuring the sheet stayed in place. The consultant detective decided not to make a remark about her modesty after the previous night's activity.

"Breakfast," He nodded his head towards the tray. Harriet reached for something to put on but couldn't find anything within reach. She tugged at the sheet but it didn't move.

"Would you mind?" she expected him to bring the tray over but instead he threw the shirt at her.

"Thanks," she slipped the shirt on and buttoned it up. By the time she looked up the enigmatic consultant detective had disappeared. "Sherlock?" she called after him but he didn't return.

Harriet showered after her breakfast in bed and noted the need to thank John when Sherlock wasn't around. Although she wouldn't let on that she knew it was John who had set it up all along. Harriet spent a lot of time thinking about what Sherlock had said before she went to sleep. She wasn't surprised by his timing it was more that he was insistent that her fiancé had been involved. Harriet had loved the man and was finding it hard to believe he would be in league with Moriarty. It was Sherlock's lack of faith in her knowledge of the missing man. Harriet wanted to call him on it but didn't want to spoil her last day with him but more to the point it wasn't worth the effort. Sherlock was Sherlock. A niggling in the back of Harriet's mind told her he was write to still be suspicious. He wasn't blinded by emotions and sentiment and was seeing the situation without clouded vision. Harriet on the other hand cared deeply for her ex. He had been a huge part of her life.

"So, I'm not going back to Gloucester till tomorrow. What are we doing today?" Harriet asked as she towelled her hair dry safely away from Sherlock and his laptop.

"I have a date," John announced.

"I wouldn't waste your time, she's seeing a city boy on the side," Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop.

Harriet dropped down onto the settee, "that's okay. We can do something can't we Sherlock?" Both Harriet and John's eyes were trained on the consultant detective.

"No," he drew out the pronunciation.

Harriet ignored him, "go and have a nice time John. I'm sure she's lovely," the consultant detective earned a glare from Harriet.

Sherlock had no intention of 'doing something' as Harriet had put it. Not when Moriarty was still at large. Harriet had other ideas. She'd slipped into a pair shoes forcibly dragged the consultant detective away from his laptop, "either come along without resistance or I will choose the most expensive restaurant I can find. You will be paying." Sherlock signed in resignation and accompanied her from the flat.

"A museum?" Sherlock turned his nose up, "boring."

"You're boring. We could have lunch instead, the choice is yours. I really fancy eating at-"

Sherlock grabbed Harriet's hand and dragged her inside not wanting to hear which of the many expensive restaurants she had taken a fancy to. He pulled Harriet closer. If he was going to suffer it he may as well enjoy the comfort of her body next to his.

"This is boring," Sherlock peered into a glass cabinet of wooden objects from some ancient civilisation in the Middle East.

Harriet rolled her eyes as she glanced at an Iron Age helmet. "Hush. I like history and besides this is useful for my job."

"Then maybe you should pack your job in," Sherlock didn't find teaching to be an exciting career choice.

"No, I like my job," she ignored Sherlock's blatant dislike of her job.

"Your job is boring," Sherlock declared.

Harriet was tempted to point out that at least she had a paying job but didn't. She had other ideas. "You know what?"

Sherlock didn't like the tone in Harriet's voice. It was full of a fake innocence. "Do I want to know, Miss Thornton?" He decided to play along.

"I think you do," she looked up at the consultant detective and stepped closer. She was close enough to reach up to press a kiss to his bow shaped lips. "I'm hungry. Get your wallet out Sherlock, we're going for lunch."

John's date was a washout. She cancelled at the last minute apparently having to work. Her name was Anna and she was an investment banker. John doubted she had to work and was with the city boy Sherlock had to great pleasure in pointing out to him. John hoped Sherlock was having better luck on his date. The consultant detective would deny to the bitter end that his afternoon with Harriet was not a date. He could believe that if it was what made him sleep at night.

Harriet tormented Sherlock about a posh lunch but settled for a Panini in Angelo's on their way back to Baker Street. Once back at Baker Street Harriet sat down to finish off some of her marking whilst she waited for Lestrade to arrive.

Sherlock peered over Harriet's shoulder as she marked the handful of ALevel papers she'd bought with her, "Errrgh, boring." He continued to flounce around in his dressing gown before sitting down with his laptop. Harriet noted that everything was boring to Sherlock. He needed a case.

John returned late afternoon. He'd been out for some food shopping. "An exciting date as usual?" Sherlock inquired as he went through the motions of social etiquette.

"No show," John replied dejectedly.

"The city boy?" Sherlock asked.

"The city boy," John confirmed.

"Her loss," Harriet tried to offer some comfort. Sherlock's phone trilled from his dressing gown pocket.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered his phone. Both John and Harriet tried to listen in the conversation but couldn't work out what was being said. Sherlock kept his reply's short and to the point giving nothing away. John knew it was a case. The small twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth gave it away.

"Miss Thornton, John will be accompanying you back to your humble abode tomorrow," Sherlock was pacing excitedly as he tossed his phone between his hands.

"I will?" John was confused. Lestrade was supposed to be driving her back. John assumed Sherlock would invite himself along again.

"You will. I'm going with Lestrade to the crime scene you stay here. Miss Thornton," he paused in his pacing and took three long strides across the room, placed his hands on her cheeks and her lips to his. He caught Harriet by surprise. As she relaxed into the kiss Sherlock pulled away, "good bye." His mind was back on the case. Harriet blinked in disbelief. John shook his head as he caught her eye.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry! It's been far too long since I updated. This chapter hasn't got much going on but it has cured the writers block that crept up on me. I'll try and update in few days but I started a new research role and on top of that ofsted have been in school and I've been revamping schemes of work but mostly I have new obsession with a song of ice and fire books. Fun. Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing.<strong>

**kie 1993- You're right Sherlock is a bit of an idiot at times. **

**Gwilwillith- glad you thought the chapter was brilliant. I did work experience in a court once. Trials definitely aren't fun. **

**Jumper Guy- I've got more in store for the pair yet :D**

**88Dragon06- Some of my favourite parts of the show are when Sherlock puts on a bit of an act, plus it's fun to write. **

**xXxCastielxXx- I would hate to think what else Sherlock has lurking in his freezer apart from human. **

**chaosrachel- Thanks for the lovely review. I definitely plan on continuing. **


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

'_**Small miseries, like small debts, hit us in so many places, and meet us at so many turns and corners, that what they want in weight, they make up in number, and render it less hazardous to stand the fire of one cannon ball, than a volley composed of such a shower of bullets'**_**  
><strong>**Rudyard Kipling**

Harriet waited up as long as she could but Sherlock didn't return. In the early hours of the morning she could hear a shuffling followed by a thud. Her first thought was Moriarty but he wouldn't come into the flat, would he? Quietly she pushed back the covers and slipped out into the cold night air. She pulled the door open a crack and peered out into the dimly lit flat. It was Sherlock. Reassured she gingerly stepped out of the bedroom to join him.

"It's a little hard to sleep with you clattering around the flat," Harriet rubbed the sleep from her eyes and perched on the arm of John's armchair, "want to tell me about it?"

"About what? The case?" Sherlock spun round to look at the sleepy teacher and regarded her with unease. He anticipated annoyance that he had favoured a case instead of their last night together.

"No the weather. Of course I meant the case," Harriet flopped off the arm into the seat.

She was understanding of him. Satisfied it wasn't a trap Sherlock pulled over a chair from the table and sat down, one leg folded over the other. "An important document has been stolen from the Foreign Office. A Mr Percy Phelps, although his name is hardly important. Security manning reception at night was found with a severe stab wound in his abdomen. No evidence on camera."

"And Mr Phelps?" Harriet asked.

"Oh he's fine," Sherlock waved her off with his hand. Dead or alive it wasn't much interest to the consultant detective.

"So now what?" Harriet asked.

"I'm going to the west end in the morning," he unfolded his legs and leaned forwards resting his arms on his knees.

"Right. What are you going to see?" Harriet couldn't understand his change in conversation but went with it. If he didn't want to say any more then so be it.

Sherlock observed his significant other. Dishevelled. Sleep in corner of right eye. Hoarseness to lidded eyes. Tiredness. He would forgive her stupidity on this occasion. "The thief. He had to get close to the security guard to stab him. The guard grabbed the thief and tore some fabric away in his hand. On that fabric were the remnants of glitter, brick dust and grease. The brick dust is red brick. The grease is used to oil joints. In this case lights. Where do you find glitter, brick dust and grease?" he didn't wait for an answer, "London's West End Theatres."

Harriet was impressed. Sherlock had achieved all that in a night. She smiled in awe to which Sherlock smiled back glad that she was impressed by his blatant showing off. He spoke with John about cases but this was different. With Harriet he had patience to explain. It was more like he was thinking out loud with her.

When Harriet awoke after returning to bed Sherlock had disappeared. She didn't mind she needed to get her bags together before she and John headed for Kings Cross Station.

_Good Bye- SH_

Harriet smiled. At least he hadn't completely forgotten her in his case excitement.

_Have fun!-HT_

"That Sherlock?" John had noticed the smile that crept its way onto Harriet's face.

"Yeah," she put her phone back in her bag, "he remembered to say goodbye."

John stayed for lunch. Harriet was glad there was someone else there to explain the court case in detail to her mother. Harriet had very little memory of the day after wiping it from her mind. She contented herself with her mother's 'tea and biscuits fixes everything' ploy.

Harriet felt bad that John had to journey back to London via train. She dropped him at the station with her mother to save him the taxi fare. Harriet was grateful for all his help. She was tempted to say that had it been the other way round she was sure Sherlock would do the same thing but that would be a lie. Sherlock would hate a packed train journey and tea with her mother. Harriet wasn't a fan of it either.

Bright and early Monday morning Harriet was dropped at school by her mother. She kept herself busy all day. The work she'd left for her classes had only been half completed. She couldn't blame them when she was their age a supply teacher meant they could doss it off and do nothing. During lunch she caught up with her emails and checked the news. The UK news section caught her attention. Staring her in the face were two uncomfortable looking people wearing a very poor attempt at a disguise. She blinked in disbelief. Was that a deer stalker?

Her next stop was John's blog for the details from the horse's mouth. 'The Navel Treatment,' she read with a chuckle. Sherlock had kept the case details to himself since their conversation but he had evidently solved the case. She was surprised by the media attention. It worried her but there was nothing she could do about it. Harriet thought that the foreign office would want to keep the theft low key but it had crept into the media regardless. Fishing her phone from her bag she thumbed the letters on the screen to send a text. Keeping her phone close had been her number one priority after Moriarty's visit.

_Nice hat- HT_

The phone barely touched the table top as she set it down when it vibrated into life.

_It brings out my eyes- SH_

Harriet laughed a rare sound as of late, her voice filled the empty classroom. He had to have the last word as usual.

The rest of her week wasn't so interesting. After school meetings and controlled assessments kept her occupied and the increasing number of days without news on her ex fiancé were taking their toll. Every time the phone rang she dreaded who was on the line. Harriet fell back into her solitary lifestyle. She still wasn't allowed to go anywhere alone. Her weekend was spent marking work across the kitchen table that less than two weeks ago had held Dan's finger. It was a constant reminder that he was still missing.

Monday morning rolled by and everything started again. Sherlock had been quiet. There were very few texts and certainly no calls but she never received any of those from him anyway. John had been more communicative. He filled Harriet in on the details of their latest case to make up for his friends neglect of his girlfriend. She found out more about what Sherlock was up to from the papers and online than she did from the man in person.

In no time at all Thursday was upon Harriet. Again her mother dropped her at work and again she spent her lunch time trawling the news sites. It was the last period of the day and she had the year ten's, a charming rowdy bunch of teenagers that had a blatant disregard for tucking in their shirts. "Mr Jones I won't tell you again-"

She didn't hear the reprobate in question reply, "yeah Miss I know. Tuck my shirt in," she was too absorbed in the man peering through the glass doors of the classroom that had grabbed her attention. She would recognise that mop of hair anywhere. What in god's name was he doing there?

"I've just got to nip out a minute. Carry on with the medieval medicine questions on the sheet and keep your voices down," she gave them her 'I mean business' glare and stepped from the classroom pulling the door almost to a close behind her. Almost immediately she could hear the noise level creep up but that was the least of her worries.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she whispered harshly as she kept an eye on the class through the crack in the door. "You can't just walk into school. Did you sign in at reception?"

"The body turned up," Sherlock had a distaste for her ex fiancés name.

Harriet blanched white. "I can't deal with this now. Just go entertain yourself elsewhere I'll talk to you later," Sherlock watched as Harriet returned to the classroom and settled the class. Scowling at the door he listened to what she had to say, "The next person I see without a shirt tucked in will be coming back at lunch tomorrow and every lunchtime next week." John had warned him to be empathetic and patient with Harriet so he left the matter and walked from the school with the same ease he'd walked in with. He went to Harriet's house. Her mother would be more than happy to invite him in. Sherlock wasn't looking forward to it.

When the class left at the end of the day Harriet finally let her emotions overwhelm her. 'The body turned up,' she bit her lip with force to keep the tears at bay, 'turned up,' Dan was dead. Her worst fears had been confirmed. Harriet packed away all her things and went out to meet her mum. She played along with the cheerful goodbyes from colleagues as she walked out.

"Oh darling, Sherlock told me what happened," her mother lunged at her in an awkward perfume filled hug over the handbrake. Harriet was surprised that Sherlock had spoken to her mother. She needed to apologise for earlier when she saw him but he wasn't with her mother in the car.

"Mum can we just go home," Harriet kept her gaze on the world outside the car as they drove home. Silent tears trickled down her blotchy cheeks. There was a hole in her heart that hadn't been there before. Deep down she still had a flicker of love for the man she'd spent so many years with. It was not something that went away overnight. Harriet slammed the car door and lugged her bags inside the house. She headed for her room and isolation.

"Sherlock?" she could make out his form sat on her bed through her blurry eyes. Hastily she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, more fell in their place. Sherlock got up off the bed and pulled her towards him. He tentatively wrapped his arms around her as John's words came back to him, 'comfort her, be nice, be as un-Sherlock-like as you possibly can.' He needed to act yet he had a genuine concern for the hysterical woman leaving no falsity in his behaviour. Sherlock was slowly becoming familiar with the reactions Harriet stirred in him. They weren't feelings or sentiment they were just chemical reactions.

When her sobs subsided to be replaced by sniffles Sherlock spoke up, "get changed."

"I don't want to," she protested meekly. She was still in her work clothes complete with ID badge around her neck. Sherlock lifted the ID badge from her neck and set it down.

"You need to eat," Harriet was deathly pale.

"I can eat here," Sherlock had been prepared for her to be difficult.

"With your mother fussing on at every opportunity she can get?" Harriet conceded to his request. She changed and freshened herself up. The last thing she felt like doing was going out for dinner.

The pair headed out to her car that hadn't been used for three weeks. Her mother did all the driving now. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. Half-drunk bottles of water rolled about in the foot well of the passenger seat and the side pocket on the driver's side was full of wrappers and tissues. The back seat was covered in various bits of paper and books. Harriet stuck the key in the ignition and the radio blared into life. She switched it off and started the car. It took two attempts for it to start and even then it rattled.

Conversation was sparse. Sherlock was the only one to speak and even then it was only directions. His phone chimed as Harriet stalled at traffic lights.

_Visiting the lovely Harriet at work is my thing._

Sherlock glanced at Harriet. She hadn't looked away from the road. He ignored the text and put his phone away. They had dinner in a bistro near the town centre. Harriet ate very little. Her food spent most of its time being shoved about the plate on the end of her fork. Sherlock received another text over dinner.

_Ignoring me? You're boring. Relight the fire in our game Sherlock._

He put the phone way and chose to ignore Moriarty once again. Harriet managed to eat half of her dinner before giving up. "I'm sorry, I'm terrible company," she waited for his reply.

"It's okay, I understand," he replied. Harriet didn't buy that he understood but thanked the gods that John did and had given Sherlock a good talking to before he left. She appreciated the effort it must have taken John and fair play to Sherlock he was doing the role of doting boyfriend justice even if most of it was an out of character strain on his tolerance.

Dusk had fallen as Harriet drove home. Sherlock had to remind her to switch her lights on. Cars blocked the entrance to the street. Harriet impatiently tapped on the steering wheel. Sherlock reached out to still her hand. It was irritating him.

"Oh sod this," Harriet maneuverer the car onto the placement and switched of the ignition. "I'll come back for it later." Sherlock held an arm out to pull Harriet closer once she'd stepped around the car. Glad of the comfort she fell into step with his arm around her waist.

"Those are flashing lights," she could see the blue light reflecting off the houses.

Sherlock kept his grip on Harriet's waist as they stepped through the gathering crowd of people at the end of the street. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air. Something was very wrong. He didn't want to worry Harriet. It could all be a coincidence. The fire could be someone else's house but it wouldn't be. Moriarty's text came back to the consultant detective with clarity. 'Relight the fire,' Sherlock should have seen it coming instead of being controlled by sentiment for the woman at his side.

"My mother is in there!" Harriet struggled against Sherlock's arms in hysterics as she ran towards her home.

"Harriet! Silly," her mother's shrill voice was the nicest sound in the world to Harriet at that moment, "did you forget Thursday's is my WI meeting with the ladies. I was out. Thank god." Mary Thornton's eyes were brimming with tears as she embraced her daughter. Everything they had worked for as a family and their memories of Harriet's father had gone up in flames. Never again would she see her proud father in his police uniform smiling at her from the picture on the mantelpiece or the dent in the side of the dining room cabinet which she and her father had caused one Christmas with a remote control car. The car had been banned from the house after that.

Sherlock looked across the street. Moriarty was sat on a stone wall smiling from ear to ear. He waved to Sherlock and leapt to his feet disappearing into the crowd. Sherlock gave Harriet one last glance before following. She would be safe. There were enough policemen around and he wasn't going far.

"I should kill you here," Sherlock glared at the consultant criminal. He wanted to tear the smug smile from his face and wring his neck.

"Please. You won't. The emergency services are busy enough, don't you think?" Moriarty straightened his tie.

"I'm sure they won't mind cleaning up one more mess," Sherlock had to pocket his hands to stop them from voluntarily reaching out for Moriarty's neck.

"I warned you but you didn't listen. I've burned Harriet. She's nothing more than the charred embers of a fire now. She won't want anything to do with you after this," Moriarty spoke in his sing song voice.

"Dan Barker. The fiancé. One of yours?" Sherlock asked.

"He wasn't but he was. Poor Dan. He didn't know when he took on the contract. He probably didn't know when he died either," Moriarty added as an afterthought. "Forgive me Sherlock but I must be going. Careful now. Don't let the fire burn you," Moriarty continued down the street. Sherlock debated following. He couldn't. Harriet couldn't take it if he disappeared. As he walked back towards the sobbing Thornton women he dialled Lestrade and then John. The fire investigation was the responsibility of the Gloucester force. Naturally Sherlock had no faith in them. Lestrade was the only moderately capable detective inspector in the country in Sherlock's eyes.

Harriet was helpless and numb to everything. There had been no respite from tragedy. It continued to strike and ware her down. The flames had been quenched leaving a charred shell where her home used to be. With only the clothes on her back she went with her mother and an officer to a hotel that had been arranged for them. Sherlock remained at the house. He was waiting for John and Lestrade.

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><p><strong>Was hoping to get this up last night but it was cheesy eurovision goodness, we had a fancy dress party. Another chapter on friday or saturday. Depends how busy or how lazy I am. Thanks to everyone for reading, favouriting and reviewing. <strong>

**owlsrawesome- love your username! love it when you get a great story that you keeps you awake reading till the early hours of the morning.**

**88dragon06- I feel bad for John and his bad dates. Think he might have to go on a successful one soon :D**

**Gwilwillith- Life got in the way. How dare it! It should know that writing about Sherlock and Harriet is far more important. **

**kie 1993- Sherlock's definitely an idiot at times.**

**chaosrachel- A top 5? Wow, thanks :D **

**Aqua18- The plot has been giving me some dificulty as of late but I've got something mapped out for the next few chapters and thank you for your lovely review :D**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

'_**Death is not the greatest**__**loss**__**in life. The greatest**__**loss**__**is what dies inside us while' we live'**_

_**Norman Cousins**_

"Mrs Hudson!" John called down the stairs. The elderly land lady could hear John from her downstairs flat. With a sigh she set down her crossword and went upstairs wondering what on earth Sherlock had done this time. When she walked through the open door of 221B it wasn't a mess with Sherlock in the centre of it that greeted her but John franticly pulling out bits of clothing from the basket of freshly ironed items she'd bought up earlier in the day.

"John, you'll crease those and I'm not ironing them again. I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs Hudson picked up a jumper from the floor and folded it neatly.

"Not now Mrs Hudson, I haven't got time," John snapped as he took off towards Sherlock's room.

Mrs Hudson frowned, something wasn't right, "what's going on? Is it Sherlock? What's he done this time?"

"No. Not Sherlock," John paused, "at least I don't think so. It's Harriet. Her house caught fire." John caught sight of the alarm on Mrs Hudson's face, "don't worry. She's fine and her mother."

"Well, what happened?" Mrs Hudson needed more details to put her mind at ease.

"That's all I know. Lestrade is picking me up," John had received a phone call less than ten minutes ago from Sherlock. It was brief and to the point like all his calls. 'John, Miss Thornton's house was set alight by Moriarty. Lestrade is picking you up. Bring clothes,' Sherlock would have hung up if John hadn't asked how Harriet and her mother were.

"Harriet dear, go for a shower," her mother was handling the loss of their home better than Harriet.

"No," she sniffed from her perch on the uncomfortable faded armchair in the window of the hotel room, "a shower won't fix things."

"You'll feel better. Wash the smoke and soot off and I'll put the kettle on," there it was, her mother's universal cure for tragedy.

"I don't like tea," Harriet lumbered to her feet and trudged to the bathroom the prospect of being forced to drink tea was more than enough motivation. She locked the bathroom door and caught sight of herself in the large polished mirror of the sink in the clinically white bathroom. There were dark smudges on her cheeks broken by the streaks of tears and the hair was falling from the bun on her head. Her eyes were red and puffy. Harriet sniffed the arm of her jacket. It reeked of smoke. All she had were the clothes on her back. Her mother had put on her gym clothes from the back of her car. It had been a recent get fit attempt at a spinning class. Harriet had nothing. She scrubbed the grime for her face with cold water and returned to the bedroom to sit back in the chair. The shower could wait.

Sherlock had disappeared. Harriet didn't blame him, who would want to deal with distraught women? It hurt that he'd vanished but at that moment in time it was the least of her worries. Harriet couldn't care less about anything.

"Harriet!" her mother was getting exasperated, "you will feel better after a shower."

"I don't have anything to wear," she was aware how pathetic she sounded.

John looked around at the smouldering shell of the house. The army doctor and detective inspector had arrived fifteen minutes ago. "He wasn't to be taken lightly, was he?" John said to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't need a name to know who they were on about.

"Hmmm, no," the consultant detective replied. He was too deep in thought to pay much attention to John.

"There's nothing left," Lestrade had finished speaking with the officer in charge of the scene. The local police considered the fire to be accidental but when Sherlock mentioned Moriarty Lestrade pushed for the fire to become a criminal investigation with the local police working in tandem with the metropolitan police. There was nothing much that could be done until the fire inspectors had been in.

"And Harriet? How is she?" John asked Sherlock for the second time. The first time he had gone unheard. John scrutinised Sherlock's every action.

The consultant detective stared at the smouldering ashes of the house. Moriarty did this. Sherlock was going to make sure he paid. "She's with her mother," Sherlock replied. It didn't really answer John's question.

"There's nothing else we can do here," Lestrade pulled out his car keys. Sherlock had come to the same conclusion within five minutes of Lestrade's arrival. "I need to speak to Harriet," Lestrade drove them to the hotel Harriet and her mother had been placed in.

A knock on the door startled the life that was left out of Harriet. She had been preoccupied with thoughts of Moriarty. "Oh," her mother opened the door. Harriet remained statue still in the threadbare armchair. "Come in," Mary Thornton stepped aside.

"Mrs Thornton, Harriet," Lestrade greeted, "I'm sure you've had enough of questions but I've got a few more to ask."

Harriet mumbled something incoherent under her breath as she glared at the polished surface of the coffee table. She didn't raise her eyes to their visitors, what did it matter? They couldn't bring back her home.

Sherlock had completely ignored Harriet's mother since their entrance in his eyes all that mattered was Harriet. The young teacher had crumbled. Sherlock frowned at her. This was exactly why sentiment was a defect.

John went into doctor mode and checked that Mary Thornton was okay, "perhaps you could go with Lestrade down to the bar and speak there." John suggested. One look at Harriet was more than enough confirmation that she couldn't handle much more for the time being. "We'll stay with Harriet. Don't worry." Mrs Thornton did worry. She worried for her daughter who had yet to acknowledge anyone, not even Sherlock.

Lestrade took Mrs Thornton down to the almost deserted hotel bar and bought her a strong drink. He suspected that Harriet needed the drink more than her mother. The Detective inspector started with routine question to check her statement that the local police had given him. There wasn't much else that Mary Thornton could tell him.

Meanwhile John and Sherlock spoke to Harriet or at least try to, "I don't know what else you want me to say!" she snapped and folded her arms. John looked to Sherlock who was uncharacteristically silent. "I-I can't tell you anything else," Harriet was on the verge of tears yet again.

"Why don't you go for a shower? You'll feel better," John looked to Sherlock for back up.

"Will a shower bring back her home? Be realistic John," Sherlock said tersely.

"Sherlock-" John's warning was cut off.

"No. He's right. I have no home. Someone I cared about is dead. I can't go anywhere alone. Some deranged maniac is out for my life to get at Sherlock. Everything I worked for is gone all I have is the clothes on my back so tell me, John, just what good will a shower do?" Harriet had spring to her feet and stormed past John towards the bathroom where she could be alone. Sherlock had seen that outburst coming. He swung his arm out and caught her round the middle to stop her from fleeing. "Let me go," Harriet shoved his arm away.

"Throwing a tantrum won't help," Sherlock kept his gaze on Harriet.

"I wasn't throwing a tantrum," Harriet swiped away the tears. Sherlock raised his eyebrows his expressions saying 'oh really.'

"Harriet, you're letting Moriarty get the better of you and giving him exactly what he wants," John went for a different approach. Harriet stilled. She didn't need John to tell her she was playing right into Moriarty's hands.

"You can talk, both of you. The best thing you can do is run a million miles away from me," Harriet sniffed in an undignified manner, "you should go. I won't stop you. It's better if you do. Moriarty won't be able to use me to get to Sherlock if I'm not around."

John didn't know whether to look at Harriet or Sherlock as a tense silence filled the dingy hotel room.

"Stop playing the martyr, it doesn't suit you," Sherlock's words were like ice in the silence.

"Sherlock," John warned.

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit back his next comment. It wasn't in anyway constructive to the situation. He snapped his eyes open and grabbed Harriet's hand marching her with him to the bathroom. "Let go of me, Sherlock!" Harriet's protest was feeble at best. John heard her muffled protest as the door closed behind them.

"Sit down," Sherlock told the insufferable woman. Harriet obliged and sat on the toilet seat lid. Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and hooked it on the door handle then rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows. The consultant detective put the plug into the bath and ran it. He emptied an entire bottle of complimentary bath soap into the tub before finally turning to look at Harriet. She looked up and met his gaze.

"Thank you," she all but whispered. Harriet gave in to Sherlock and let him pull her to her feet and pull her shirt over her head, "Sherlock, I can undress myself."

"I'll get you some clothes," Sherlock grabbed his jacket turning away from Harriet's flushed cheeks.

"I don't have any," she said feebly.

"I'll get you some clothes," Sherlock repeated and left the room.

Harriet took the rest of her clothes off and shoved them into the corner. The bath filled her nose with the scent of lavender. Harriet dipped a toe into the scolding water before biting the bullet and stepping in.

Sherlock returned to the bathroom with an armful of clothes, he placed them on the counter top. Harriet swept bubbles closer to preserve some of her modesty not that he was looking.

Harriet felt better after her bath. The clothes she was wearing were big and baggy. A pair of Sherlock's navy pyjama bottoms and a knitted jumper that she suspected belonged to John. Harriet curled up onto one of the twin beds. Sherlock's gaze was concentrated on the world outside. He stood at the window peering through the gap in the curtains. John sat in the chair in front of the mirror waiting for Sherlock to speak.

Lestrade and Mary Thornton returned not long after Harriet left the bathroom. Her mother had given him her statement and established a place to go. Lestrade was suggesting witness protection for Harriet and her mother. "Is that really wise?" John nodded his head towards Sherlock whose back was to the room. John knew Sherlock wouldn't take it well. Irene Adler was proof enough. John really couldn't take any more sad music and week-long silences.

With some coaxing Harriet managed to give Lestrade her statement and answer some of his questions. Witness protection wasn't something she wanted. "Miss Thornton will return to Baker Street with us. We will watch over her," Sherlock remained focussed on the window despite his comment.

"She would be safer in witness protection," John agreed with Lestrade.

"Moriarty will find her. Just because she is no longer in contact with me doesn't mean that Moriarty will stop," Sherlock knew the consultant criminal. He was in this till the end.

The agreement was made for Harriet's mother to go into a witness protection programme. It took the rest of the night to arrange. John dozed in the chair by the window. Sherlock sat opposite him with his hands clasped together resting against his chin deep in thought. Lestrade was on the phone again. Harriet's mother was sleeping and Harriet was lying on her back lost to her thoughts. She was already mourning the loss of her mother come morning. Once she left she would no longer be able to contact her until Moriarty was stopped.

Morning arrived. Breakfast was ordered to room. Lestrade, John and Sherlock left the two Thornton's alone for their final hour together. "You take of yourself young lady," her mother smiled, "Sherlock will take care of you."

"I wish I could come with you," Harriet had to fight hard not to cry.

"You will have Mrs Hudson. She's family," Her mother tried to comfort her.

"But she's not you," a tear slipped down Harriet's cheek.

Final goodbyes were made when Lestrade returned to room with a team of people involved in witness protection, "I will come back to you when Moriarty is gone," her mother cried into Harriet's shoulder as they clung to each other in a last hug. They separated both drying their eyes her mother on a tissue and Harriet on the sleeve of John's jumper. Alone without her mother Harriet fell against Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around the distraught young woman holding her tight. John nodded his head approvingly and went with Lestrade to bring the car to the front of the hotel.

In the car back to London Harriet remained quiet. John and Lestrade conversed in the front whilst Sherlock looked out the window at the passing scenery. Tears fell onto Harriet's pale cheeks. She wouldn't be able to see her mother again until Moriarty was behind bars. At the back of her mind Harriet couldn't help but worry that Moriarty might remain at large. What would she do then?

John looked in the wing mirror at Harriet in the seat behind him. The poor thing was broken. Sherlock wasn't exactly helping matters. He wasn't an emotionally supportive boyfriend that was for sure. John caught Sherlock's eyes and nodded his head towards Harriet. Sherlock took the hint and slid across into the middle seat to comfort Harriet. She let him guide her away from the window and to his side; his hand ran up and down her arms.

Harriet was numb as they approached London. With little awareness of her movements she was ushered inside Baker Street where Mrs Hudson pulled her into hug. The elderly woman was wearing a sharp perfume that tingled in her nose. Harriet inhaled it sharply as a distraction. They proceeded upstairs where a tray of tea, sandwiches and biscuits were waiting. John immediately tucked into a cheese sandwich. Harriet was crying again. Tea and biscuits was her mother's answer to everything. She excused herself with tiredness and crawled into Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock finished his cup of tea and silently followed Harriet into his room without so much as a thank you or a goodbye to Lestrade. The detective inspector took no offence having adjusted to Sherlock years ago. Sherlock didn't need prompting this time to comfort Harriet. Once he was in bed Harriet turned over to curl up against him. She cried herself to sleep.

There were no words from the consultant detective he barely understood sentiment at the best of times. He could do nothing for grief she felt for the loss of her mother, her home, her fiancé and her job. Sherlock placed a kiss to her forehead. John had informed him that he would do better to stick to actions and not words.

As Harriet fell into an exhausted sleep, despite the day light hours, Sherlock pondered over events. In search for Moriarty he had found something else, something of greater value that he loathed to give up. He was possessed with a strong resolve to tear Moriarty's head from his shoulders.

* * *

><p><strong>So I said a week and its been nearly a month since I updated. Hoped to get this up last week but was plagued by migraine so sitting at my laptop was the last thing I wanted to do. I've lost my exam classes now so I have more time to write in the evenings. Summer holidays are nearly here so I'll have more time to write. Cheers to everyone whose reading =]<strong>

**owlsrawsome- glad you love it**

**chaosrachel- sorry this update wasn't so fast, Moriarty's dialogue is one of my favourite things. I can just imagine him saying those things in my head. **

**Gwilwillith- love that you review every chapter :D**

**Sally Fantastic- thanks for reviewing lots of chapters, the email alerts reminded me to finish this chapter.**


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

'_**Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives'**__**  
><strong>_**C. S. Lewis**

John Watson was worried about the latest addition to Baker Street. The inhabitants of 221 Baker Street were keeping up with the farce that Harriet Thornton was okay. John had noticed the lack of life behind her smiles, rare that they were. John had taken it upon himself, he supposed as result of his medical training, to make sure she ate three meals a day and didn't hide herself away in Sherlock's room. Speaking of Sherlock he had found himself a case on the second day of their return to London. Turner's masterpiece, The Reichenbach Falls, had been stolen from an art gallery.

"So this painting is the work of Turner?" Harriet asked John who was pleased to see that she was showing an interest. Whilst Sherlock was off gallivanting with Lestrade Harriet and John were trying to piece together the case to satisfy their own curiosity after Sherlock failed to give them any other detail in his excitement over a new case.

"Yeah," John replied. Shamefully their first port of call had been Wikipedia. Harriet searched Turner's other works online. She was no detective but could appreciate art. It was a welcome distraction from the trials of the last few weeks. Mrs Hudson had tried to keep her busy and under her instruction Harriet had peeled the wall paper from the walls of the damp basement flat. The land lady made no indication of when the flat would be ready for a new tenant. Harriet had the sneaky suspicion that she had no intention of renting it out or even would be able to with Sherlock living in the same building. She appreciated the gesture that Mrs Hudson was making to keep her busy but really of all the things why was it decorating? John's ideas were better. When he'd been out to get the food shopping he'd bought back a stack of magazines, a mix of celebrity, fashion and women's magazines.

"John where's my coat?" Sherlock strode into the flat, "it's now officially cold enough." John sighed and got to his feet to retrieve the coat from its hiding place. The army Doctor had forbidden the consultant detective from wearing the coat in summer. It didn't matter if it made him look dark and mysterious it looked bloody ridiculous on a hot August afternoon. "The scarf too!" Sherlock shouted after his retreating friend.

"Surely it's not cold enough for the scarf as well?" John reappeared with a heavy black coat draped over his arm. Sherlock shrugged on the coat and looped the scarf around his neck. Harriet looked up from her laptop to watch the exchange.

The consultant detective turned up the lapels on his coat and looked down at Harriet, "you will need a coat too."

"Take John," Harriet replied. The truth of the matter was that the thought of leaving the flat made her nervous. Run-ins with Moriarty had been one too many for her liking.

John stepped in. Getting out of the flat was just what Harriet needed although where Sherlock was taking her was anyone's guess. Hopefully the consultant detective had enough sense not to take her anywhere dangerous. Whilst Harriet reluctantly went to get ready Sherlock received a talking to from John, "she's fragile at the moment. No chases. No guns. No Bart's. No anything Sherlock-like in any way shape or form."

"No Bart's? Well what if I find something?" Sherlock asked annoyed that his fun was being spoilt. They both knew Sherlock would go anyway.

"Bring her back here first," John answered. The sooner Sherlock was gone the sooner his headache would disappear. It had been one of those days so far for John. Sherlock had left just after breakfast after first demanding his coat. John declined him on this occasion knowing he would hear protests all day. The text he'd received an hour later only proved it further. Upon his return he'd still demanded his coat. Harriet could deal with the consultant detective for a few hours. Let him be her problem.

Harriet linked her arm with Sherlock's and the pair walked side by side down the street towards the Tate gallery where the painting was stolen from. She was quiet as they wove their way through people. It worried Sherlock. There were no sarcastic remarks or scolding's from the withdrawn young woman. John had warned him to be patient and understanding. He was managing that, wasn't he? Casting those thoughts aside he returned to what he was good at, handling a case.

Lestrade had contacted him about the missing painting and if he was honest 221B Baker Street was suffocating him so he snatched the case up even if it was trivial and dull. A missing painting would be easy business that was until he decided to take Harriet with him. He didn't know what to say to make her situation better. Words weren't going to fix it. Moriarty's head on a plate would. That he could do but for the time being he had no leads.

The Tate was quiet. It was a Thursday afternoon. Children were in school and parents at work. A couple of students lingered by a display of photographs and an elderly couple were shuffling past portraits of a long dead King. Sherlock walked quickly through the halls with one destination in mind. Harriet wanted to stop and appreciate what she seeing but panicked at the thought of being left behind by Sherlock. She followed diligently. Before Moriarty she might have protested but he could be in the building right alongside them. It was better to stick with Sherlock.

Harriet caught up with Sherlock mid-deduction, "no visible signs of a break in. That doesn't mean anything. Inside job. Gallery worker. No. Suspect has no care for art. Only works for money. Security. Come on."

"Where are we going?" Harriet asked as she followed the eager consultant detective. She almost collided with him when they came to a stop at reception.

"Do you have any lip balm?" Sherlock turned to her.

"Yes," she was unsure of her answer. What on earth would Sherlock need lip balm for? "Why lip balm?" Harriet asked.

"Prevents loss of moisture," Sherlock answered.

"Yes I know that but why do you ask?" Harriet was unnerved by the smile on Sherlock's face.

"Look over there at the receptionist. Pale. Bags under eyes. Chapped lips. Go ask her where the Picasso and Modern British Art exhibition can be found," Harriet did as she was told. Sometimes it was easier to do as Sherlock asked than question him. As she walked over she looked back to check that Sherlock was watching. She needed the reassurance.

"If you follow the signs to the left and head through this hall," the woman's voice was croaky as she pointed to a visitors map. Harriet, now thoroughly puzzled, thanked her and re-joined Sherlock.

"She has a sore throat," Harriet informed Sherlock unsure that it was the answer he was looking for.

"Thought so. When did you buy the lip balm?" he asked. How was she not getting this? It was simple.

"My mum got it for me when I left the hospital after…" she left her sentence open. The emntion of her mother and her abduction stirred still raw emotions. Sherlock wished he hadn't broached the subject. She was back to being miserable.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered over to the receptionist leaving a confused Harriet to follow. His aim had been to move her mind away her mother and the abduction. Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a sort of wallet, he flashed it in front of the receptionists face, "Last night we're you or we're you not knocked out by a member of the Tate's security? Answer quickly."

"I," the receptionist struggled with her words clearly surprised by the man in front of her, "I'm sorry. It's my fault the painting was stolen. I should have seen him but I was working late. There'd been a function. I was tired" Harriet wondered what Sherlock had shown her to get her to give the information freely.

"Who's him?" Harriet asked trying off set Sherlock's blunt approach. Sherlock could feel Harriet's accusing gaze from behind. She clearly did not understand the need for a quick answer. This was exactly why sentiment was useless. It got in the way of cases. This would all be over a lot quicker if the insufferable women that had taken over his mind palace with sentiment kept out of the conversation.

"The security guard," the traumatised receptionist answered.

"Name," Sherlock prompted.

"Phil Wilson, he was always so nice," the receptionist took a sip from the bottle of water behind her desk. Sherlock couldn't care less if he was 'always so nice'

Harriet left the gallery with Sherlock; she had to jog to catch up before linking her arm with his. He'd left so quickly. Was he always like that on cases? Poor John. Sherlock used his free arm to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket and dial Lestrade, "Yes, Lestrade. Look into Phil Wilson. Security guard at the gallery. He's the one who stole the painting. Used chloroform on the receptionist." He hung up with no goodbye.

"Chloroform? Like me?" Harriet all but whispered. She now understood his question about the lip balm. Her mother had bought it for her chapped lips at the hospital newsagents and her throat had been sore as well.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed at her inability to keep up, "like you."

"No need to be like that," she huffed and yanked her arm free from his.

"Harriet," the tone of his voice was low. A warning.

She ignored the warning, "what did you show the woman?" Sherlock hid his surprise well. He was expecting a tirade from the irate young woman and not another question.

"It was a police ID," Sherlock answered.

"They gave you a badge?" Harriet was stunned. Sherlock tossed her the police badge, it was Lestrade's. "Lestrade gave you his badge?" She eyed him apprehensively.

"No, try again," Sherlock looked insulted at the suggestion he was given the badge.

"You borrowed it," it made sense to Harriet.

"Of a fashion," Sherlock turned his head to the side to look for a taxi.

"For crying out loud Sherlock! You can't steal people's ID and a police one at that, it's illegal," Harriet raved at the consultant detective as they hailed a taxi. Well, Sherlock hailed Harriet ranted.

Sherlock was more at ease with a Harriet who scolded him. It was normal. The tears were a bigger foe than Moriarty. She was still niggling on as they sat in the back of a black cab. It took a lot of effort on his part to hide his amused smile.

"We could have looked at the rest of the paintings," Harriet complained as Sherlock took her coat. John was pleased to see some life back in Harriet upon their return to Baker Street.

"No," Sherlock drew the word out and spared her a quick glance to prepare for the insult, "they weren't important."

"No, it's because you were being an arse," she crossed her arms in irritation.

"We could go back?" Sherlock wasn't sure why he suggested that. He didn't want to but would do it for Harriet. There it was again, that niggling persistent feeling that he hadn't behaved as expected in a relationship. He didn't want to look at paintings, he was on a case but Harriet evidently did. Harriet went to prepare dinner leaving Sherlock to fill John in on the case. "I should take her back to the museum," Sherlock mused aloud.

"You should or you want to?" John prompted, he was caught by surprise that this was Sherlock's chosen topic of conversation ahead of the case. The consultant detective in question sat on the settee with his elbows resting on his knees. His hands were pressed together with his chin resting on his thumbs. Sherlock Holmes was deep in thought. John allowed him to think not that he had a choice.

Harriet clattered about in the kitchen and swore loudly as she dropped a tomato on the floor. John shouted if she was okay but didn't go and help the answer he may get from Sherlock was more important. Eventually Sherlock sat back and stared at John with an impassive face, "I want to."

"Why?" John asked hoping that Sherlock might admit his feelings out loud.

The consultant detective sprung to his feet, "It was the security guard. Receptionist was working late; he drugged her and took the painting. Now to find it. Lestrade is finding out more about Phil Wilson, the guard. The painting will be returned by tomorrow." John was disappointed that Sherlock had stopped being forthcoming with information but was already distracted by the case. Returned as soon as tomorrow, of course, this was Sherlock he was dealing with. The man wouldn't sleep until it was returned.

Harriet and John ate their dinner in front of the evening news. The painting had made it onto the news. A reporter was describing the event stood outside the gallery. Lestrade had called to in from Sherlock that the security had guard had disappeared. Sherlock figured he would. For the second time that day he hung up on Lestrade without a goodbye. Sherlock passed on dinner to search on his laptop. He had a contact in the art industry that would inform him should the painting turn up at auction.

When Harriet had gone to bed Sherlock and John left Baker Street. Sherlock had insisted that a patrol car watched the flat whilst they were out. The investigative pair caught a taxi across town where Sherlock had gotten word that a not so legal auction of art was taking place. As it turned out the auctioneer had dealt with Sherlock in the past.

"You know a dodgy art dealer?" John asked in wonder as they left. They hadn't found the security guard or the missing painting but had come away with a grubby business card.

"Yes," Sherlock answered without an explanation. It was getting late despite this Sherlock dragged John along with him to St. Bart's. Once there he hunched over a microscope as he picked apart the stain on the grubby business card. The auctioneer had given it to them telling them that a man claimed he could obtain Turners 'Reichenbach Falls' painting.

"Oil," Sherlock exclaimed as he sat back from the microscope with pride.

"Oil? Right. What's good about oil?" John's tired brain was slow.

Sherlock was sliding his arms into his coat and heading for the door before John could finish his question. Getting to his feet John grumbled to himself and followed. "There is oil on the card. Oil is good John. It will lead us to Wilson. It's the same oil used by the maintenance crew of the London Eye," Sherlock was ecstatic.

They left the quiet hospital or at least John thought they had. Sherlock had turned back inside. "Where are we going?" John asked Sherlock.

"Detour," Sherlock mumbled.

"Right," John followed a few steps behind. He watched as his enigmatic friend plucked a plant from a shelf in the hospital florists. John had to blink to clear his vision. Had he really just witnessed Sherlock Holmes buying flowers?

Sherlock and John got in a taxi and headed back to Baker Street. Lestrade had been woken from his sleep by Sherlock who knew the exact location of Wilson who would panic and give up the paintings location to the police. In Sherlock's eyes the case had been solved, he didn't need to bother with the boring police stuff.

"Who are the flowers for?" John asked with amusement. Sherlock stiffened but didn't answer. "They are for Harriet aren't they? The great Sherlock Holmes buying flowers for his girlfriend," John teased. Sherlock ignored him.

"Miss Thornton, wake up," it was not easy to shake the young woman awake with a plant in his hand.

"Oh," she yawned and rubbed her eyes, "you're back."

"I am," He confirmed.

"Solved?" Harriet sat up in the dark room.

"Solved," Sherlock sat on the bed, "here." He thrust the flowers awkwardly at the sleepy teacher.

Harriet took the object and switched on the bedside light, "Flowers?"

"Yes as ever Miss Thornton your powers of deduction amaze me," Sherlock brushed her hair back from her face.

"Don't spoil it. I love orchids, thank you," she leaned up and kissed him firmly as she placed the plant on the bed side table. Thank god women were made to multi-task. One of his hands had found its way to her cheek, the other was steadying himself as she kissed him with a passion Sherlock had not expected, not that he was complaining. He guided her gently back onto the bed so his body hovered over hers. Lips still firmly locked.

Harriet was in heaven. Sherlock had surprised her with his romantic gesture even if he had left the hospital gift shop price tag on. Harriet didn't inform him of that. She didn't want to discourage any future romantic gestures.

His lips were a distraction from her worries. Harriet's hands deftly moved to the buttons on his shirt. In the blink of an eye Sherlock was on his feet leaving a stunned Harriet lying in a daze on the bed. The woman had distracted him, "Go back to sleep," he instructed.

"Sherlock Holmes! You cannot wake a girl up in the middle of the night. Give her flowers. Kiss her like that and then walk away," Harriet chastised.

"Miss Thornton you kissed me," he answered back and closed the door.

Oh how he'd wanted to stay but there was thinking to be done. In hindsight he should have waited till morning to give the flowers but imaging the smile on her face he threw that plan out the window and decided to wake her. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. He couldn't stay though. The case had been solved but the London Eye was niggling on at Sherlock. They'd seen Moriarty there. Was there a connection between the painting and the consultant criminal?

* * *

><p><strong>Wimbledon has been my big distraction over the last two weeks, anyways enjoy and thanks to everyone who'd read, reviewed and whatnot. <strong>

**Sally Fantastic- he's learning! I can just imagine Sherlock delving into a romance novel to learn something, might have to use that idea. Thanks!**

**Gwilwillith- great review as always :D **

**chaosrachel- Errrgh rain and non stop at that. How inconsiderate of the weather! Glad the chapter could cheer you up. **

**UndercoverCaptain- I'm desperate to leave the miserable Harriet behind and start writing happy Sherlock/Harriet moments. John is definitely going to play a part in educating Sherlock in this field. **

**Newtofanfic- wow! Absolutely loved your review, made me smile :D **

**Way Worse Than Scottish- reading fiction in one night is definitely worth it :P **


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

'_**A man paints with his brains and not with his hand'**__**  
><strong>_**Michelangelo**

When Harriet awoke the first thing she laid eyes on were the purple orchids by her bed. Sherlock had surprised her in a good way last night. The insufferable arse had out done himself this time. She smiled into the pillow. Last night she'd had the best night's sleep in weeks. Snuggling under the duvet she fell back into a light slumber.

"Well I'm not going!" raised voices disturbed Harriet's sleep. "The answer is no!" well maybe not voices but voice. Sherlock's to be exact. Harriet flung back the covers and pulled on a hooded jumper. There was no way she could sleep any longer with that racket. When she stepped into the living room Sherlock was laying on the settee facing the back with his arms crossed. Harriet wondered what on earth she'd walked into.

"Shift it," she nudged the consultant detective with her foot.

"Morning Harriet, coffee?" John popped his head from the kitchen. Harriet raised her eyebrows at John hopping for an explanation. He shook his head and returned to the kitchen.

"Please," she called back. Sherlock still hadn't moved. Harriet rolled her eyes. "Now, are you going to move?"

"There's a perfectly good chair over there," Sherlock mumbled.

"There's a perfectly good chair here," she nudged him again. He was sulking. Harriet nudged him again. Sherlock curled his knees up closer to his chest freeing up space at the end of the chair. Harriet sat down, "so what's got your knickers in a twist?"

John could hear the exchange from the kitchen and almost snorted into his tea. Oh she was good but then dealing with a class of thirty teenagers must make dealing with Sherlock a walk in the park. He stirred sugar into the coffee and took it through. This was going to be interesting.

"On the table," he waved his arm towards the table. Harriet got up and went to investigate.

"Phone or paper?" for once the table was clear of clutter.

"The phone," Sherlock hadn't moved from his position on the settee. Harriet slid her finger across the screen to unlock it. It opened on the message screen. Why couldn't Sherlock explain it to her simply instead of leading her on a song and dance? It was a question not worth answering.

_Tate Gallery. 7pm. To celebrate return of RF. Requested you- Lestrade_

Oh, that explained things. Harriet exchanged a smile with John who'd now joined them in the living room. Harriet typed back a message to Lestrade as she spoke to her consultant detective. "You didn't sleep last night," she stated.

"Excellent observation," Sherlock didn't move.

"You should sleep," it was weak advice to give to the consultant detective. He wouldn't listen. Harriet fought the smile on her face as she typed a reply.

_He'll be there- Harriet_

"What did you do?" Sherlock sat up and took the phone from her. Harriet stood up and set her mug down.

"How did you know I'd done something?" she asked with genuine interest and no denial.

"Miss Thornton nothing gets passed me. Tone of your voice. You were unable to keep the smug amusement from your voice," he answered. Harriet left for the bathroom. Now was a good time for a shower. "I'm not going!" Sherlock shouted after her. He looked to his blogger for support. John was not hiding the amusement well. "What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Nothing," John grabbed his laptop to update his blog leaving Sherlock to stew.

Harriet couldn't stop herself any longer, the laughter escaped her lips. It felt good. The grown man was sulking over an invite to the gallery as a thank you. Harriet shut the bathroom door blocking his further protests and showered with a smile on her face.

Mrs Hudson invited Harriet downstairs for lunch and to talk about decorating the basement flat. Harriet was of the opinion that neutral tones would make the place seem brighter than it was. Some bright cushions would bring in warmth and keep the damp feeling at bay. Mrs Hudson on the other hand, wanted floral patterns. They settled on floral fabrics. "What's your opinion dear, will I be able to rent it out with you know who upstairs?" Mrs Hudson asked Harriet.

"Errrrrm, honestly? I'd say there was no chance. Unless they knew Sherlock well," and didn't feint at the sight of blood, Harriet added to herself. Sherlock had once left a severed foot on the stairs for three days according to John. When Harriet left she was clutching two plates of cheese sandwiches for Sherlock and John courtesy of Mrs Hudson with a message that she was not their house keeper.

"Your housekeeper sent these," Harriet handed over the sandwiches. Sherlock made a sound of approval. It had been a quiet day in Baker Street a result of Sherlock's sulking and boredom had crept in. Moriarty had kept Sherlock awake all night. He was behind the painting. It was the only explanation. There was no coincidence between the security guard also working for the London Eye and their meeting with Moriarty during the summer. It was Moriarty's way of letting Sherlock know that he was still out there. Sherlock grumbled to himself as he dropped a solution containing grains of pollen onto a slide. He slid it into place. What would Moriarty want with a painting? Sherlock's hard drive was on over drive. _Moriarty. Falls of the Reichenbach. Moriarty. Tate Gallery. Moriarty. London Eye. Moriarty. Harriet. Moriarty._ Over and over again.

John worked on typing up the latest case for the blog trying his hardest to ignore the sulking consultant detective. Speaking of the devil, Sherlock was continuing his sulk in the kitchen with his mini lab for company. He took a bite from the sandwich and returned to his work.

"Where's Harriet?" John asked as he stepped through the door. He'd nipped to the shop for bread and milk. The staples in any household.

"Getting changed. John, these magazines are most enlightening," John frowned at Sherlock. He was reading Harriet's magazines.

"What are you reading?" Sherlock held up one of Harriet's magazines.

"What women want in a man, an insightful article written by a blatant feminist," Sherlock provided John with an insight.

"Of course you are. How many of those have you read?" John observed his friend carefully. Harriet's magazines had been split into two piles. As far as John was aware there was no case involving reading women's magazines so this was research for his own purpose.

"These articles are biased," Sherlock didn't answer John's question. John had nothing more to say and went to change for the gallery.

Harriet emerged from the bedroom wearing a mid-length salmon coloured dress with a dark flowered pattern up the side. She'd even gone as far as to don a pair of strappy heels and curl her hair. Both Sherlock and John looked up as she stumbled into room, tripping in her heels. Sherlock bit back his comment about unsuitable footwear. "You look lovely, Miss Thornton," Sherlock took her hand and kissed the back of it. It was a move so out of character for Sherlock that rendered Harriet and John speechless. John blamed the magazines he'd read. "Shall we go then?" Sherlock, dressed in his usual attire, led the way from 221 Baker Street guiding Harriet, who was in a daze, down the stairs. It was not a romantic gesture he was more worried about her falling and breaking her neck in those shoes.

"Well you did want to see the other paintings," Sherlock finally conceded as they sat in the back of a cab. John shrugged at Harriet as she shared a questioning look with him. It was in the bloggers best interest to keep Sherlock and the magazines a secret.

Once inside the packed exhibition hall Harriet grabbed two glasses of champagne as Sherlock dealt with their coats. John sipped from his own glass as he kept a watchful eye out for Lestrade. Sherlock returned and took the glass. It was truly a spectacular event. Harriet had never been to something as extravagant before. The ladies were dressed up to the nines and their gentlemen were crisply dressed in suits. Harriet was sure she spotted an actor or two amongst the crowd.

"This is different," Harriet commented dryly, she was in awe of everything.

"Hmmm, yes, marvellous evening," Sherlock's reply was laced with sarcasm at least he stopped at rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock," John warned as the director of gallery made a bee line for them. The director of the gallery was a short man with glasses. His head was almost completely bereft of hair. He wore a dark grey suit with a silver tie; a blood red handkerchief filled his jacket pocket.

"Oh great," he muttered so only Harriet could hear. She laughed and stepped away to stand by Lestrade leaving the consultant detective and his blogger to their humiliation.

"Falls of the Reichenbach, Turner's masterpiece. Thankfully recovered owning to the prodigious talent of Mr Sherlock Holmes," the director began. He stepped closer towards Sherlock with a box wrapped in paper the same colour as his tie. It was wrapped in a black ribbon. It reminded Sherlock of the last time he received a wrapped present. Irene Adler's phone. "A small token of our gratitude," the gift was handed over.

Sherlock shook the box slightly, "diamond cuff links." Harriet rolled her eyes. "All my cuffs have buttons."

"He means thank you," John apologised for Sherlock.

"Do I?" he narrowed his eyes at his friend.

"Just say it," Harriet felt for John stood next to Sherlock. He'd agreed to come but that didn't mean he was going to accept the thanks gracefully.

"Thank you," reluctantly Sherlock posed for a photo with John.

"For a show off he's reluctant to take the praise," Harriet commented to Detective Inspector Lestrade. "I thought he'd lap it up."

"You know Sherlock, anything to make our lives harder, excuse me," Lestrade left Harriet to wait for the return of the Baker Street duo alone.

The trio returned to Baker Street just after midnight. Harriet was admiring the cuff links in the back of the taxi, "Diamond cuff links, impressive."

"My shirts have buttons," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'll buy you a shirt without buttons," Harriet didn't want them to go unused.

"I won't wear it," he answered back.

"Oh grow up," Harriet elbowed him, "but if you don't want them then John might make use of them?"

"Yeah. Not all my shirts have buttons," John smiled wide. Sherlock frowned at the mocking he was getting from his flat mate.

"I think I'll hang on to them," Sherlock placed them in his coat pocket.

Back at Baker Street John went straight to bed. Sherlock retrieved a glass of water from the kitchen for Harriet who had drunk one too many glasses of champagne. She sipped from it and set it down. Her attention was now solely focussed on Sherlock. Harriet's fuzzy mind forced her to grab him by the lapels of his blazer pulling his lips to hers.

"Miss Thornton, what are you doing?" Sherlock interrupted Harriet's unfastening of buttons. He stepped back his thighs colliding with the settee. A tipsy Harriet was a whole new kettle of fish.

"Finishing what you started last night," Sherlock sat down pulling her down with him so she was straddling his lap. This insufferable woman had gotten to him again.

"By all means," he caught sight of John in the doorway, "but I do think John will object to your floor show."

Harriet whipped her head around. Mortified that John was there. She thought he'd gone up to bed. "I needed water," he apologised.

Harriet went to shuffle form her place on Sherlock's lap but his hands resting on her hips kept her in place. She very quickly sobered up. John said good night and returned to his room after retrieving a glass of water. Sherlock smirked, "embarrassed?" he asked. The blush on her cheeks was answer enough.

What was it the magazines had said? _'A man who compliments,'_ he quoted the article from memory. Compliments. He'd already given her one of those tonight another couldn't hurt. Sherlock decided to test this theory.

"You curled it," Sherlock twisted a curl around his long index finger, "very classy." His theory was proved correct. It really didn't hurt to compliment her. She blushed again and kissed him. "We should go to our bedroom. I would hate for John to have another fright," Sherlock spoke when their lips parted, his forehead rested on hers. Harriet stood up and let Sherlock lead her to his room.

Harriet paused in the doorway, "you said our room?"

"I did," Sherlock confirmed and pulled her inside.

"I want to go to Dan's funeral tomorrow. Lestrade said they released the body," Harriet informed Sherlock over a late breakfast the following morning.

"No," he picked up one of the newspapers lying by his plate of toast.

"I wasn't giving you a choice," Harriet stormed past John to find an outfit having lost her appetite. She had very few clothes since the fire. Slowly she'd been building her wardrobe but was always accompanied by John or Sherlock neither of which enjoyed clothes shopping.

"Why? Why do you want to go," Sherlock stood stoic in the doorway to the bedroom.

Harriet dropped the skirt onto the unmade bed, "you really don't get it?"

"Sentiment?" Sherlock answered.

"Yes, exactly, brilliant, gold star," Harriet muttered as she picked up the skirt again. Busy. She needed to be busy.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock's asked with genuine concern.

"Yes. No. Maybe. I'm barely holding it together and you just don't get it," Harriet paused, "I've said it before, I'm fine with you not getting it."

"It's important to you that you go," Sherlock could grasp that much.

"Yes. John can come with me. I'll ask him in a second," Harriet took a black cardigan from a hanger when she looked up Sherlock was gone. She wondered if she'd said something to offend him.

"Sherlock!" she shouted after him, "where did he go?" she asked a bewildered John as she walked through the kitchen to the living room.

"Are you alright, Harriet?" John could see her distress.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine," she waved him away.

"Don't lie," Harriet whipped around to see Sherlock in the doorway. Harriet paused for a moment. He was clutching his laptop. "I've just booked two tickets on the eight AM train to Gloucester."

"Okay," Harriet was lost for words. Sherlock walked past her and through to his room. "Thank you," Harriet couldn't fathom whether she was thanking him for the tickets for her and John or for coming with her.

* * *

><p><strong>Quick update this time, enjoy. Managed to get this written up between playing tennis and then watching the final. <strong>

**Triskaidekaphoric- Sherlock does endearingly awkward very well, good fun to write :P**

**chaosrachel- Sherlock with a girlfriend just wouldn't happen in our universe, glad you like my interpretation.**

**UndercoverCaptain- more adorable Sherlock/Harriet interaction coming up :D**

**Gwilwillith- gaahh Wimbledon, I'm so jealous. Who did you want to win? Would have been nice for Murray to win but got to love Federer. **

**tori.m- 97 degrees? Damn, its pissing with rain in the UK (nothing knew), Sherlock is definitely a lovely distraction.**


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

'_**The difference between guilt and shame is very clear—in theory. We feel guilty for what we do. We feel shame for what we are. A person feels guilt because he did something wrong. A person feels shame because he is something wrong'**_

**Lewis B Smedes**

Harriet wasn't going to cry. She refused to. Far too much time had been spent looking weak when she should have been helping Sherlock stop Moriarty. Although what she could do to help was a complete mystery or at least it was to her. "I'm not going to cry," she informed the consultant detective sat opposite her on the train. Sherlock stared back at her.

"I'm glad to hear it," he was, crying women weren't his cup of tea, "but your actions betray you." Sherlock leaned over the small table between them and swept away a stray tear from Harriet's cheek with the pad of his thumb. It was going to be a long day for the pair.

"I'm not going to cry," Harriet muttered to herself as they sat in the back of a taxi. Sherlock peeped to the side but chose not to say anything for the rest of the journey.

Sherlock was bored. There were far more important things that he could be doing with his time than attending a funeral. Harriet had been carted away by some insignificant family member of the dead fiancés family; it had taken all of two seconds for Sherlock to decide who the insignificant family member was. Female. Mid-twenties. Elaborate nails. Immaculate hair. Hairdresser. Cousin. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. Another deduction was needed.

Elderly man. Blatant staring at buxom red head stood in the aisle. Tattoo visible just above neckline. Ex-army. WW2. Uncle. The consultant detective moved on to another guest. He'd been inside the church less than five minutes. Another five and he'd have made a deduction on every single guest. This was on a par with a conversation with Anderson.

Harriet returned to Sherlock's side where she felt safest. They'd already discussed the prospect of Moriarty having men hidden among the colleagues of Dan's on the train. It made Harriet uneasy. "The woman you were talking to is giving me an accusing stare. She thinks I've 'stolen you' which is preposterous. Old man three rows to your left is a pervert. The man who claims to be best friend of the deceased is sleeping with one of his cousins. That one over there with the bright red lipstick," Sherlock recounted his deduction to Harriet. His eyes fell onto the woman with the accusing stare. The deceased's mother. Sherlock leaned towards Harriet and kissed her full on the lips.

"What was that for?" Harriet placed her hands on Sherlock's chest and pushed him away. Her mixed emotions were fighting each other. Confusion had jostled into first place for the time being but grief was hot on its tail. She couldn't understand Sherlock's actions. It was a funeral for crying out loud, who does that at a funeral?

"Giving her what she wants to see. The mother. She blames me. If I hadn't _stolen_ you then Moriarty would not have gotten involved and her son might still be alive," Sherlock explained.

"You didn't steal me," Sherlock shrugged at Harriet's reply.

"She doesn't think that," Sherlock answered back tartly, "I'm the _other guy_. She thinks you left your fiancé for me but we both know that isn't true."

"You are unbelievable. I can't deal with you now," Harriet took her seat not caring if Sherlock followed she'd had enough of him. Sherlock was taking one step forward and two steps back. The consultant detective in question frowned at the young woman. He'd upset her, perhaps John should have gone in his place. Sherlock sat down quietly determined to be on his best behaviour for the duration of the funeral. John would like that. It would be 'progress'.

Harriet dabbed at her eyes throughout the funeral. Family members spoke about happy memories and fond childhoods that had Harriet dabbing at her eyes with her tatty tissue. Sherlock, still in the dog house for his previous actions, didn't know what to do. A display of affection was out of the question, that lesson had already been learnt. Arms around her shoulder? No, the mother would not be impressed but what did he care about her? It was Harriet who would be unimpressed. Harriet mattered. Sherlock settled for placing an awkward hand upon Harriet's knee. No reaction. He was still in the dog house.

The service ended, not soon enough for Sherlock's liking. He'd identified the man in Moriarty's web. Six rows back and to the left keeping tabs for Moriarty. He was a middle aged man who'd worked under the pretence of colleague with the fiancé. The man saw Sherlock looking and winked. Sherlock turned away. The man was not his problem for now. Harriet was his problem.

The congregation in the church filed out and the coffin was put in the ground. Harriet linked her hand with Sherlock's as they watched on. It was all starting to get too much again. Having to make excuses for her mother's absence tugged at her heart. She was homesick and being in Gloucester wasn't helping matters. Sherlock gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She squeezed it back and focused her attention on a twig lying in the ground. Looking at the coffin was too much for her.

Guests filtered from the church yard. Some were meeting up at a local pub they used to haunt, a favourite of Dan's. Harriet didn't want to go but she felt she had to. She owed it Dan. He'd been her fiancé they'd shared so much and now he was gone. Their relationship had fizzled out but as a friend and a person she still cared about him.

"I'm ready to go," Harriet walked passed Sherlock and down the street from the pub the guests had gathered in afterwards. Sherlock had waited for her near the doorway and had been quick to follow. From his position he could keep a close eye on her and not offend the fiancé's family at the same time. Sherlock doubted that Harriet knew where she was going as she took off down the street. He followed her as they rounded the street corner, crossed and continued on. He continued to follow. As they turned another corner Sherlock recognised the route. The train station was a twelve minute walk.

Harriet eventually stopped as they entered the station. The train to London had departed minutes ago. "Well isn't that fantastic," She mumbled.

"The Great British Transport System, always a disappointment," Sherlock drawled. They'd have an hours wait for the next one. Harriet walked away from him to the platform the train was due at. Again Sherlock had to follow her. He was giving her space but not enough for Moriarty to feel the need to interfere. She sat on a green metal chair at the far end of the platform.

"Are we going to sit and wait for the train?" Sherlock inquired. He was stood with his leather-gloved hands in his coat pockets.

"Yes," she replied curtly.

"For an hour?" how much boredom was he to endure?

"Yes." Sherlock resigned himself to his fate and sat down next to her. He folded one leg over the other and tapped the fingers on his left hand on his knee. Seconds turned to minutes. He was bored.

Harriet pulled her knees up to her chest and hid her head. Sherlock was sure she was crying but what could he do? John would know. He removed his phone from his coat pocket.

_It appears I have disappointed Miss Thornton- SH_

He left out that he was asking for help. The phone vibrated in his hand. It was still on silent. "Oh, at least you managed to put your phone on silent, thank god for small mercies," Harriet muttered. Sherlock refrained from making a smart reply.

_Apologise!_

Sherlock read the text and looked at Harriet. An apology.

_You're assuming I've done something wrong- SH_

_Am I wrong?_

John had used his words against him. Sherlock put his phone away in annoyance.

"I owe you an apology," Sherlock blurted out. Blurted? What was wrong with him? It was Miss Thornton's fault.

Harriet turned her head to the side to look at Sherlock. He noted her red eyes. Crying. His observation was spot on as always. "You don't know what you're apologising for," her voice was barely above a whisper.

"My conduct at the funeral," something within him stirred. Guilt? Shame? Sentiment? Did Miss Thornton really think so little of him? No, that wasn't it. He'd seen this behaviour before at crime scenes in witnesses. A coping mechanism.

"People don't deduce at funerals. They don't kiss someone to prove a point to the deceased mother either," she elaborated upon his brief answer. Harriet's memory betrayed her as she remembered the first time Sherlock had tried to prove a point to her. He'd kissed her in his kitchen. That was when her life had gone into a downward spiral.

It was late when they walked through the front door of Baker Street. Harriet didn't wait for Sherlock. She headed up the stairs as he closed the door. When Sherlock entered 221 B Harriet was nowhere to be seen. His bedroom door was closed.

"Leave her Sherlock," John was disappointed as well, the tone of his voice said it all. Sherlock sat down in his chair, coat still on ready for a scolding from John. "You couldn't behave for one day? One day, that was all Harriet was asking for. One day of you not being yourself."

"She didn't ask," Sherlock jumped in.

"Don't," John silenced him, "she didn't need to. Sherlock, when you are in a relationship you have a duty. A duty to be there for the other person. Be supportive, caring and considerate of feelings."

"I was-"

"No. You were a prick," John flicked on the television. It was end of discussion.

John went to bed after a police drama finished. It was one of Sherlock's favourites to pick faults with but tonight he sat silently in a sulk. John left the detective with his mind for company. That colossal brain of his would process everything eventually.

Harriet was awake early. It was still dark outside. Her thoughts had kept her awake long into night until she'd fallen asleep from exhaustion. The day had been emotionally draining. She cried for most of the night silencing her sobs with her pillow. Harriet had done a lot of that lately. She hated it. A part of her wished she was like Sherlock and not let it bother her but it did. How could it not?

Sherlock hadn't come to bed it was either a new case or avoidance. She suspected the latter. Feeling lost in the empty bed Harriet climbed out and pulled on a cardigan Mrs Hudson had given her upon her move to London. It was a thick cream cardigan with golden buttons, thick enough to keep out the chilly night air.

Harriet found Sherlock lying on the sofa asleep. She knelt down by his sleeping form and ran her hand through his thick curls. With a heavy sigh Harriet repeated her action wondering what went through his head. Had she been asking too much of him at the funeral after all he'd made the effort to come and had refrained from being his usual obstreperous self with the exception of the deductions but even Rome wasn't built in a day. The train tickets were his doing. He didn't have to come with her and yet he'd chosen to. His presence had been a comfort against Moriarty and his minions that stalked her mind on a daily basis. Sherlock's comfort zone was hunting down criminals not funerals full of emotional people there was very little point in dwelling on the matter further. It was best to move on and not give Moriarty a reason to gloat that he'd burnt Sherlock.

Moriarty, the name tasted funny. He'd taken everything but Sherlock. Dan was gone, what was left of him was lying stiff in the ground. Her home was gone, what was left of that lay in a pile of rubble. Her mother was gone, what was left of her relationship with her had been taken by witness protection. Teaching was gone, what was left of that had arrived in her last pay check. Sherlock wouldn't follow them. He couldn't. She wouldn't let him. Realisation dawned on Harriet as she watched the consultant detective sleep. She was in love with him, warts and all.

After her split with Dan she hadn't wanted anything serious and yet here she was. In a relationship with a high functioning sociopath who had an 'arch enemy' for a brother and a consultant criminal out to get him. Harriet removed her hand ready to shift from her awkward position on the floor, "hmmm, why have you stopped?" the consultant detective mumbled. Harriet flushed in embarrassment at her actions. The darkness hid her blush to all but Sherlock.

"My feet are asleep," she rubbed some feeling back into them.

"You weren't using your feet," Harriet rolled her eyes at the detective and struggled to her feet, "where are you going?" Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Back to bed, are you coming?" Sherlock sat up but didn't stand up.

"Miss Thornton, Harriet. I owe you an apology," he stared at her with his intense icy stare that cut through her everytime.

"No. You don't," she decided it didn't matter anymore.

"Yes. I do," he looked up at her in earnest.

"It has been bought to my attention that I should have been more considerate today and for that I apologise," Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and in one long stride closed the gap between them.

"Thank you Sherlock," she rested her head on his chest. Her mind was screaming at her to tell him her revelation but she couldn't do it. It would spoil everything she had left.

* * *

><p><strong>So we're slowly creeping to Riechenbach Fall and I have no idea where to take the story. I've got some ideas and another case for Sherlock to tackle but it's the after that's got me stumped would love to hear what you all think. Thanks for reading and reviewing :D<strong>

**tori.m- interruptions :P sure there's a few more to come yet**

**chaosrachel- RF ending was upsetting, I'm dreading getting to that point and really want a happy ending for Harriet and Sherlock.**

**Gwiliwillith- Sherlock is leaning! **

**UndercoverCaptain- I couldn't make things easy for them at the funeral, but at least Sherlock went. **


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

'_**Next to sound judgment, diamonds and pearls are the rarest things in the world'**__**  
><strong>_**Jean de la Bruyere**

Greg Lestrade had been having dinner with his wife in an attempt to patch up their relationship. She'd not seen the P.E teacher in over a month and things were starting to improve she'd even pushed the boat out and cooked him a three course dinner in their large London terrace. It had been a good week for Lestrade. Sherlock had been absent from all cases giving his team a much needed break and he was getting a slap up meal.

The Lestrade's were tucking into a tiramisu desert when Greg's phone rang. "Sorry," He apologised to his wife and took the phone out into the hall. He spoke to the officer on the line and ended the call. He needed to take a deep breath before returning to his wife with his apologies. "That was the station. Suspected murder. Rain check on desert. Maybe when I get home?" hopefully that would satisfy her for now. Needless to say Mrs Lestrade was not a happy bunny. Greg received an ear full before he could make his mistake. A quick text to his team and he was on his way.

Sally Donavan was working late dedicating her time to the stack of neglected paperwork Lestrade had shoved in her direction. She sighed heavily as she cross -checked a case number on the computer. It was taking forever. Sally shoved her swizzle chair back from the desk and went to get coffee letting the computer catch up in its own time. Her phone chimed from her pocket indicating a text.

_Drinks tonight. The usual, see you at 7 x _

If she worked solidly for the next hour and a half she might make it in time for nine, surely her friends would wait for her. Mid-way through her reply her phone chimed again. Saving a draft of her text Sally checked the new message. Lestrade.

_Tottenham marshes. Suspected murder. _

Sally forgot about her freshly brewed coffee in the vending machine and dashed for her jacket. Meeting the other officers in the foyer she joined them in the car to the crime scene. Sitting in the passenger seat gave her time to text her apologies to her friends. Drinks would have to wait for another night.

Anderson was playing football with a five a side pub team in Croydon. His team were losing horrendously. Anderson's only condolence was that Sally might want to see him later. She had ended their night time escapades out of fear for her professional career when 'the freak' as she affectionately named the consultant detective outted them at a crime scene but their little rendezvous had established itself three months ago. Anderson was in luck, he would get an evening with Sally just not as he'd planned. When he checked his phone after the game finished he had two missed calls from Sally, one from Lestrade and six text messages summoning him to a crime scene.

"Anderson and Mansell you are leading teams to check the surrounding area for a murder weapon. I want it found!" Lestrade barked as he looked down at the body. It was a simple murder. A stabbing. Desert was only a matter of hours away for him.

"Sir," Sargent Donavan called, "diamonds." She produced a small black velvet pouch emptied into her gloved hands.

"Diamonds? What was he doing with diamonds?" Lestrade mused aloud.

"No idea," Sargent Donavan mumbled and placed them in an evidence bag.

Evidence was bagged and the body tagged ready for the morgue. Lestrade would give them till morning to confirm cause of death. Hopefully Molly would be on duty she always did a thorough job and never skipped corners.

It was Tuesday. Lino cleaning day for Mrs Hudson. "Oh that boy has made a mess," she commented with a certain fondness reserved for the consultant detective.

"Here, Mrs Hudson, I'll clean that up," a beaker of foul smelling liquid was sitting precariously close to the edge of the kitchen table. John and Sherlock had disappeared out on a lead for a case. Mycroft had bought it over the day before. Something he wanted to keep quiet for his club.

Harriet had offered the elder Holmes a drink. One look into the kitchen had been enough to put him off. "Sherlock this place is a mess. Mother would have a fit," Mycroft stood in the middle of the living room away from any offensive items. "Speaking of Mummy, I mentioned your girlfriend," Sherlock pulled a face, "and she wants to know why she hasn't met the lovely Harriet yet."

"Are we going to exchange idle chit chat about trivial matters all day? I now have a very pressing case to attend to. Good day, Mycroft," Sherlock waited by the door his hand resting on the handle.

"You can't avoid her forever. Mummy will pay your lovely abode a visit. I'd like to spare her the trauma," Mycroft joined his brother at the door. "Harriet, John." Mycroft inclined his head and with his swinging umbrella in hand headed down the stairs. His visit put Sherlock into a mood that latest well into the evening despite the new case he'd acquired.

Harriet forgot about Mycroft and concentrated on the brother's mother. What was she like? She pondered this as she scrubbed the dishes whilst Mrs Hudson cleaned. Already the flat was looking in a better state. "Mrs Hudson, have you ever met Sherlock's mum?" Remembering Mycroft's visit had prompted the question she'd been meaning to ask.

"His mum?" Mrs Hudson paused her housework, "I never really thought of Sherlock having a mother."

"Oh," Harriet was disappointed not to have any more answers and resolved to ask Sherlock when she plucked up the courage.

The lab at St. Bartholomew's was a well-oiled machine. Molly had processed two bodies and it wasn't even lunch time. The first body had been a young man dead of tuberculosis picked up on a holiday abroad far more interesting than the second body. A stab wound and nothing more. Molly had no reason to use the fancy equipment in the state of the art laboratory this time. "Afternoon Molly," Lestrade greeted as he walked in.

"Oh. Hello, what can I do for you?" Molly fumbled with a greeting. The detective inspector had surprised her.

"Report on the body bought in this morning. We have a positive I.D. A Doctor Iain Roberts," Lestrade read from the file, "anything unusual about cause of death?"

Molly handed over her notes, "Victim died of a stab wound to the abdomen. Bruising to base of the spine suggests he was beaten. Fractured right fibula and bruising to the face. No drugs were found in his system."

"Thanks Molly," Lestrade was genuine in his thanks. He found the mousy pathologist endearing.

"Just doing my job," Molly's enthusiasm was short lived. "H-has Sherlock been involved in the case?" she was aiming for casual but couldn't contain her stuttering.

"No. you know what he's like. A stabbing is too dull for him," Molly smiled at the detective inspectors comment. It was just like Sherlock to find a stabbing dull. A part of Molly, the part that fancied the pants of the consultant detective, was disappointed not to have the perplexing consultant detective in her lab. As of late he'd been around less and less. Molly decided that it was due to the media attention he'd received following several high profile cases. At least he was busy. It meant fewer messes left in the lab for Molly to clean.

Sherlock and John left the dingy gentleman's club in Soho. A lead had taken them there. John had to be told twice that they were leaving by Sherlock. His attention had been grabbed by the scantily clad women parading around on the stage.

"Enjoy yourself John?" Sherlock smirked. John laughed it off and diverted the conversation back onto the case. The club owner played golf at the same club as Mycroft on weekends. Government officials were frequent visitors to his Gentleman's club and it was through the owner that Mycroft had become involved. Sensitive information had been hacked by a group going by the name of Brothers Watch. The owner had overheard a conversation between a government official and a man he didn't recognise. It was clever and right up Sherlock's street.

"Go back to Baker Street. It's Mrs Hudson's bingo night. Stay with Harriet," Sherlock instructed John once they were outside.

"Sherlock have you ever thought," he had to stop mid-sentence as a teenager on a skateboard barged between the two, "have you ever thought that Harriet might want time alone."

"She doesn't."

John sighed; he was fighting a losing battle, "have you asked her?" He received the you-are-being-incredibly-stupid look from Sherlock.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out that she hates being alone out of fear of Moriarty," Sherlock explained and side stepped an elderly woman hobbling along with her shopping. "It's stupid of her to think he would go to Baker Street. Moriarty likes clever."

John skirted over the fact Sherlock had just insulted his girlfriend's intelligence, "he could. You have no way of knowing for certain. Not even you are that good."

Sherlock stopped abruptly. John carried on a few more places by the time he had realised Sherlock was walking back the way they came. "And where are you going?" John kept his voice just below a shout as Sherlock headed in the opposite direction. Passers-by gave him disapproving looks. Sherlock was already out of ear shot. With no choice but to obey his friend John returned to Baker Street to keep Harriet Company although what Sherlock really meant was 'watch over Harriet'.

Lestrade sat down to a frosty dinner with his wife with last night's desert to look forward to. His wife complained that it wouldn't taste as good as it would have done the day before. Greg Lestrade didn't complain. It tasted fine to him so fine that he had a second portion which he would no doubt pay for later when his wife nagged him about healthy eating. The Lestrade's managed to get through desert and part way through Coronation Street when his phone rang. Greg had allowed his wife choice of television in the hopes of placating her and was more than glad of the call he received from the station. "Sir, we've got another one."

The Diogenes club was an Edwardian building made of white stone. Sherlock walked up to the man doors and went inside. Inside the walls were covered in a dark mahogany wood. High backed chairs filled the main room. Sherlock strode into the centre of the room. It was eerily quiet. The men who occupied the room sat in high backed leather armchairs and it was of the upmost importance to them that they take no notice of the other people in the room but Sherlock's arrival had disrupted this.

Sherlock sat back in a chair near an elderly gentleman and made a noise of approval. Mycroft hadn't been lying when he said the chairs were comfortable. He received a dirty look from a large middle-aged man across the room. "Ah, custard creams," Sherlock took a couple of biscuits from a tea tray set out for the elderly gentleman.

The quiet was again disturbed by heavy double doors opening. "That is my cue. Good day gents," Sherlock grabbed another custard cream and headed for the doors where two suited men waited for him.

"Mr Holmes, your brother is waiting," The man on the left said once the doors were closed.

"Mycroft, any chance of some more of those biscuits?" Sherlock sauntered into the room with a half-eaten custard cream in his hand.

"Sit down, Sherlock," Mycroft remained standing at the far end of the room keen to keep an advantage over Sherlock.

For the next ten minutes the Holmes siblings were civil to each other. Snarky comments were held back and derogatory statements withheld. It was strictly business. Sherlock had successfully solved his brother's issue with hackers. The names and location of the offending parties passed on for Mycroft and his government to deal with as they saw fit.

"Introduced Harriet to mummy yet?" civilities were only tolerated for so long.

"When I do I'll be sure to inform mother how well your diet is going, is that another three pounds put on?" Sherlock countered. One thing was certain; his mother was not sinking her teeth into Harriet.

John returned to a sparkling flat with the exception of a box of Sherlock's papers and his lab equipment but even those appeared neater. Harriet flinched when the door opened. Mrs Hudson had left ten minutes ago leaving Harriet alone. The smallest of noises caused her to jump. Moriarty niggled away at her. "Sorry. Only me," John closed the door behind him. Sherlock had been right about Harriet being alone. Although she was hiding it well John had spent far too much time with Sherlock to know differently.

"Have you eaten?" Harriet disguised her surprise buy getting to her feet.

"Chinese?" John suggested.

"Chinese," Harriet agreed. When the Chinese arrived Harriet and John sat down in front of a quiz show and were able to enjoy it for what it was- light hearted fun. "Have you ever met Sherlock's mother?" Harriet's asked once the plates were cleared. If Mrs Hudson couldn't give her a satisfactory insight John surely would.

"Can't say I have but I'm intrigued," John

"I imagine her to be quite the matriarch, complete with feathered hat," Harriet smiled in amusement.

John joined in her fun, "a Miss Havisham character."

Harriet and John continued in their light hearted manner all evening. It was the final straw in their laughter when they flicked to a period drama. The Dowager Countess on screen fit their description of Mrs Holmes to a tee.

The period drama broke for adverts giving Harriet the opportunity to ask John about Sherlock. "John?"

"Hmmm," John didn't look away until the end of the toothpaste advert.

"Sherlock has been exceptionally nice this week," it unnerved Harriet. He'd been less of a pain in the arse.

"I'd noticed that. I've been paying for it double though," Harriet laughed. At least Sherlock was making someone's life difficult.

"It's because of the funeral but I don't know why he's still keeping up the farce. He's a very good actor when the time calls for it and besides I forgave him for his inappropriate behaviour," it felt good to get it off her chest.

John smiled, "he's making an effort but don't worry. He'll soon get bored and be back to his usual self." Harriet liked the sound of that. His politeness was something found only in the famous eighteenth century novels and not in twenty-first century high-functioning sociopaths but despite this Harriet appreciate that he was trying for her sake.

"Stab wound to the abdomen, sir," a constable on duty informed Lestrade as he arrived at the crime scene, "and more diamonds". The constable briefed him and returned to his post. It had the same characteristics as the previous day's murder. The victim was identified as a Professor Thomas Fielding. He was younger than the first victim. The only tie that Lestrade identified was employment. Both victims worked at the University of London. Lestrade's next step would mean speaking to the victim's family's and colleagues. A part of the job Lestrade wasn't keen on.

"I'm sorry for your loss but please, if you think of anything at all that might help you can contact me on this number," Lestrade handed over a business card with his office number. He left the tearful family and returned to the station. "Anything new?" he asked Sargent Donavan.

"They both worked in the same university department, the business school other than that there's no other connectors at the present," Sally answered. Lestrade turned his phone over and over in his hand in contemplation. "You're going to call him, aren't you? The freak."

Lestrade was familiar with Sargent Donavan's insult and ignored it; he'd long since given up correcting her, "Let's give it another day and see if we can't turn up something for ourselves."

The front door to 221 Baker Street opened and Sherlock headed up the stairs. The television could be heard from the bottom of the stairs. A comedy show. John's laughter joined the audience's laughter. Sherlock entered the living room, "you're back."

"As ever-" Sherlock began and frowned down at the interruption.

"John, your powers of observation are exceedingly good," Harriet grinned. Sherlock smirked in approval of his witty significant other.

"I don't say exceedingly good. I'm not a cake advert," Sherlock added.

The consultant detective shrugged out of his coat and removed his scarf. He laid out full length on the settee. Harriet had stolen his chair. "Where did you disappear to?" John was pleased to see that his comment that resulted in Sherlock's abrupt departure and sulk had been forgotten.

"The Diogenes Club."

"Right, because we know what that is," Harriet was just about able to keep up with Sherlock's comings and goings but this place was a new one.

"The Diogenes Club, do I need a reason to visit my brother?" Sherlock didn't explain any further.

"Yes. He is your 'arch enemy' remember?" John shook his head

"More importantly, what is the Diogenes club?" Harriet

Sherlock grumbled at their ignorance, "What is like in your minds? It is a club of remarkably comfortable chairs and custard creams."

"Stop being deliberately difficult, you are close to owning the title of insufferable arse for the evening," Harriet scolded, "I'm sure the custard creams were very nice," she added as an afterthought.

"Silence is held in the upmost importance," Sherlock smiled.

Harriet laughed, "You made as much noise as you could, didn't you?"

"Of course he did. Sherlock, you hate being told what to do," John was also amused, "I bet Mycroft loved that."

"Three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the founders," the consultant detective explained.

"So you solved it then?" John asked.

"What? Oh yes, solved," Sherlock sounded dejected. An evening in front of the television was dull.

"How?" Harriet wanted to know, she liked hearing about the crime solving duo's escapades.

Sherlock recounted the tale of events. The Brother's Watch, a team of three brothers, had been watching the internet and email traffic for the Department for Energy. They had stumbled upon a string of email that contained sensitive information concerning nuclear power in the UK. Sherlock managed to track them down and handed the details over to Mycroft. It wasn't his usual sort of case but the hackers were clever and that was what appealed to him that and keeping away the boredom.

John was thoughtful for a moment once Sherlock had finished telling his tale, "you know that for certain?" He was referring to their intention to give the sensitive material to the papers.

"I knew for certain. I am that good, John," John's earlier comment had not been forgotten.

Lestrade briefed his team early the next morning. Their latest lead regarding the two victims was a trip to the Democratic Republic of Congo that they had both shared. It was a research trip for the university into multinational companies' partnerships with businesses in developing countries. They worked closely with the Kimberley Process Certification Scheme since 2003 to prevent diamonds resulting from conflict from entering the markets. The diamonds found on the bodies now made sense.

The case was starting to give Lestrade a headache and his wife was nagging him again, she was dropping constant hints about a weekend away in a country house. If he called Sherlock in the case would be solved quicker, the consultant detective loved serial killers and his wife would love him for taking her away. It was a win-win situation. Lestrade sent a text to Sherlock who never answered his phone when he called.

_Two dead. Stab wounds. University employees. Worked in Dem Rep Congo. Diamonds. Molly has the bodies. _

The straight forward post-mortem that Molly had done on the murder victim the previous day had suddenly become very interesting. Another body had turned up. Molly wondered if she should pass the details on to Sherlock who still hadn't been around but that would land her in trouble Lestrade and ruin her future chances of working with Sherlock. With a heavy sigh Molly took her samples through to the lab and began her testing.

It took Molly until the following day to complete her test. She was also retesting the first body on Lestrade's request. "Malaria," Molly was puzzled at the results. It hadn't killed him; the stab wound had done that. The disease was only in its early stages. The victims liver was the only tell-tale signs at this stage. Molly supposed he must have been abroad. Perhaps a holiday. She lost herself to daydreaming of a holiday in the sun lying on the beach drinking cocktails with a dishy pool boy.

"Molly, the bodies. Do you have them?" Molly blinked. Sherlock Holmes was stood on the beach with her in his coat and scarf. Wait a second, Molly thought, why would he need a coat on the beach. She blinked again and returned to the lab. Oh, Sherlock was there, right in front of her.

"I-" Molly tried to formulate an answer.

"Were you day dreaming Molly? Really, something so childish in someone your age," Sherlock was looking over the list of bodies currently in the morgue. Molly sighed and went to retrieve the bodies, she wasn't that old.

* * *

><p><strong>So, summer holidays and six weeks without planning or marking or anything of the kind. It's bloody marvelous so to celebrate and because all the sunshine lets me sit outside and write here's a longer than usual chapter :D<strong>

**Way Worse Than Scottish- I really struggled to write Sherlock in the last chapter and in the end just went with what I had. He's just so damn complicated. **

**Marzipan- hahaha if only... couldn't agree more. I enjoy writing their awkward encounters.**

**chaosrachel- cheers for the ideas, I was thinking about tackling his background a bit more hence the mother cropping up, I've had her meeting with Harriet written for a while but haven't used it yet. Oh and Irene is coming up because how could she not interfere. **

**kie 1993- thanks for the review**

**UndercoverCaptain- thank you, your ideas have been a great motivation to write more!**

**Gwilwillith- I wonder if Sherlock will ever get there. **


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

'_**Assumptions are the termites of relationships'**__**  
><strong>_**Henry Winkler**

Sherlock was concentrating on the second victim having taken all he could from the first. Stab wounds. No other visible injuries. Victim caught by surprise. "Your toxicology results, Molly?" he asked the pathologist watching him.

"Huh? Oh, right, yes. The second victim. The professor, he had malaria," Molly was finally able to explain after flicking through the papers on her clipboard. There was no answer from Sherlock. Molly looked around the room wondering what to do with herself. "I could make coffee?" Molly suggested.

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock answered sharply. Molly disappeared through the double doors leaving Sherlock alone to concentrate or at least try to concentrate. Sherlock had been at St Bart's all night. His phone made a noise from his coat pocket. He was tempted to ignore it but it may be Lestrade with new details. It was Harriet.

_I don't need watching. Mrs Hudson is here. Ask John to join you, watching May the Best House Win is not his cup of tea- HT_

Sherlock locked his phone, pocketed it again and returned to second body. He closed his eyes in frustration and took the phone back out. Harriet was owed a reply and his friend needed saving from the delights of morning television.

_Don't want him to lose anymore brain cells- SH_

_Meet at St. Bart's- SH_

Harriet said goodbye to John and returned to the television. At first she hadn't minded having the time to sit around doing nothing. The start of the school year had been busy but now she was getting bored and itching to do something but leaving the house was a problem between her fear of Moriarty and Sherlock being over protective. What she needed was a distraction.

"Ah John about time. Come on," Sherlock strode past his friend.

John stood in the doorway to the lab with a bemused look upon his face, "but I just got here. Hello Molly. Bye Molly." He took off after the enigmatic Sherlock.

Once they were sat in the taxi Sherlock explained to John they were going to speak to the victims' families. Lestrade had already done this but Sherlock wanted to do it properly or more importantly he wanted to take note of the surroundings in the home. They were always a massive clue to the real story behind the victims.

The taxi pulled up outside a large semi-detached property belonging to the first victim. Sherlock and John climbed out and rung the bell on the imposing front door. A woman dressed in black opened the door wide, "apologies Mrs Fielding for disturbing you at this tragic time," Sherlock had launched into an act almost immediately. John was hesitant to allow him to continue but went with it anyway keeping his guard up.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" the woman inquired of the strangers at her door.

Sherlock put on a sympathetic smile, "yes sorry forgive me. I'm Doctor Peter Maguire; I worked with your husband at the University." His eyes fell upon the woman's left hand. Scratched wedding band. Valued marriage. No troubles. What really caught Sherlock's eye was the shining white gold ring on the middle finger. It was new. Diamond. Already his mind was running away in his mind palace. Diamonds. On her finger. Diamonds with the victims. Diamonds.

"Come in, come in," she stepped aside and gestured the pair into the living room.

"This is William Harris, a research assistant," Sherlock waved towards John and gave him a 'just go with it' look. This was going end badly, John thought to himself as Sherlock gushed forward sentimental condolences for the dead Doctor.

"Right, yes, I did," John followed Sherlock's lead.

Sherlock looked around the living room, "interesting masks," he commented as he eyed the two colourful masks adorning the wall.

"Iain bought them back on his last trip," she disappeared into a memory.

"To the Congo?" Sherlock clarified. Lestrade and Molly had both provided him with this information.

"Yes. He was devoted to his work there but you already know that. I'm sure you feel the same about blood diamonds," the woman was bought back from her reverie.

For the next ten minutes Sherlock and John kept the woman talking and probed further into the victim's life. "Easy," Sherlock said once the front door closed behind them.

"I'm sorry, easy? Sherlock, that woman just lost the love of her live and you treat it like a game," John berated his friend.

"Sentiment?" Sherlock checked. Harriet came to mind as he contemplated what John was saying. He shoved thoughts of her into the deep recesses of his mind. It wouldn't do to do well on her when he was close to solving the case.

"A research assistant? Really Sherlock," John complained after a short while, "don't you think she would have recognised the name of her husband's research assistant?"

"Did she?" Sherlock answered back.

"No," John replied.

The consultant detective lapsed into a triumphant silence as he contemplated their visit as they travelled to the second victim's home. By now Sherlock was fairly certain what he would find. He cast his mind back to a newspaper article on blood diamonds in Africa and links to the victims. "Her wedding band was scratched and worn yet she wore a large diamond ring," he mused aloud.

"He was just treating his wife," John reasoned. Anyone but Sherlock would understand this.

"That ring barely cost him. He already had the diamond. Everything in that house pointed towards lack of wealth," Sherlock went on, "that diamond was obtained illegally despite the doctor's ethical stance on diamonds."

"They were trading diamonds illegally," John stated.

Lestrade shifted through the evidence in the conference room with a team of people as they pieced together patterns and conclusion of the case. Sherlock had been quiet so far not that Lestrade was knocking it but pretty soon he would need answers. "Sir, these illegal diamonds, what is the demand for them?" a young officer inquired. Lestrade had been hoping for a fresh mind but so far the fresh mind had been a bit of a wet blanket. The detective inspector sent him to make fresh coffee to get him out of his hair. He didn't need any more grey hair, his wife had given him enough of that already.

"Illegal trade in diamonds has been on the rise over the last few years. We busted a movement not far from Tower Hamlet's last year. They could be connected. Get onto the team that led the bust, see what you come up with. Anderson, get the diamonds tested for colour and their origin. See if they match what was found," Lestrade rubbed his temples and sat back in his executive style chair. He would be working late again.

Mycroft Holmes climbed out of the jet plane at London City airport. A diplomatic resolution had been needed over potential North Sea gas pipelines. The Russian's were looking at moving in on British and Norwegian territory. It was a headache he could do without especially after his mother had called to check in on Sherlock upon his return.

"Mycroft, its mummy. Dear, how are you?" her chipper tone irritated his headache. Mycroft pulled his phone away from his ear.

"I'm perfectly fine. I assume this is not a social call," he wanted the call over as soon as possible. There was a conference call with the Taiwanese in an hour.

The Holmes brothers had long since escaped their mother. As children their father was constantly away on business leaving their mother with them in their large London manor home. It should have been an idyllic childhood filled with opportunities, big family Christmases and summers in the country but it hadn't been. There been opportunities. Expensive ones to provide the children with essential skills that their mother could brag about in their social circle. Mycroft had played cricket from an early age where as his brother had favourite solitary pursuits. Sherlock would spend hours holed up in his bedroom with his violin.

"Have you seen your brother lately? He's been avoiding my calls," Mrs Holmes cut straight to the chase.

Mycroft had seen Sherlock the other day when he'd visited the Diogenes club, "Sherlock is fine. He's occupied."

"Still carrying on with that ridiculous _consultant detective_ nonsense?" Mrs Holmes had always disapproved of her youngest son's poor excuse for a career with Mycroft in the government the family business had gone to a cousin.

"Yes mummy. Now tell me about the charity dinner you attended last week? Were the Wentworth's there?" he steered his mother away from discussing his infuriating brother.

Mrs Holmes knew exactly what her son was playing at, "Mycroft Holmes I suggest you tell me what is going on this instance."

Mycroft sighed, he had enough sense to move the phone from his ear to avoid a scolding from his mother, "my charming brother has found himself a girlfriend." There was no use keeping it from their mother she would find out one way and at least this way it would spare Sherlock from telling her himself. From an early age Mycroft had looked out for his younger brother. In the early days of school, both Holmes being sent away to school, he had watched over his brother. He'd been an easy target for the other children. Despite their rivalry and continuous jibes Mycroft had a genuine concern for his brother.

Mrs Holmes was silent on the end of the phone as her eldest son broke the news. It was just like her youngest to keep something so important from her, "and is she amiable?"

The eldest Holmes brother had to keep his smile back. Mrs Holmes's definition of amiable was wealthy, well-educated and fashionable. Mycroft had looked into Harriet's background. Wealthy didn't fit but the other two did, well mostly, her sense of fashion only extended to high street stores according to Anthea who was sporting a Dior dress. As for the first time he'd met the woman that had claimed his brother's attention, she had been anything but amiable and called him rude and an arse, "she has an eloquent way with words," Mycroft described. "She is pleasant enough, a teacher," he left out the Moriarty part of her story. Mrs Holmes made a disapproving noise similar to that of the youngest Holmes'. When Mrs Holmes hung up Mycroft contemplated contacted informing his brother of their mother's impending visit but sibling rivalry won through.

A visit to the second victim's home had provided Sherlock with more evidence towards his conclusion. John caught the smile on Sherlock's face as they walked up the flight of stairs to the flat the second victim had lived in. It was his 'I know something really important smile' that was usually reserved for a thrilling case. "Care to share?" John asked.

Sherlock had flashed his 'borrowed' police badge from Lestrade to get the building's care taker to let them in. The care taker, believing they were police and trustworthy, left them alone in the victim's home. "Anderson missed everything of importance," Sherlock commented as he returned to the living room after venturing into the bedroom of Professor Thomas Fielding. John didn't need to witness him riffle through another man's draws. "Ticket stubs, John," he waved the affirmation tickets in front of John in his eagerness to show off, "the Prof made an extra trip." John took the ticket in question from him.

"He returned the day before he died, Lestrade never mentioned this," John inspected the ticket further.

"Lestrade doesn't know. Look at the name," Sherlock was getting impatient. He'd already reached his conclusions and was ready to go.

"Andrew Lambert," John read aloud. It didn't belong to the professor or it was a fake name.

"Yes. Now the numbers at the bottom, written in pen," Sherlock was already out of the door to the flat as John contemplated the meaning of the numbers and one letter.

"Bus number?" he asked as he caught up.

"No. Think John, think," Sherlock strode with purpose out the building where he'd kept the taxi waiting. At least Lestrade allowed them to put taxi fares through expenses on a case not that Sherlock ever remembered to collect a receipt that was John's job. Sherlock didn't give him much time to think, "A number, followed by three numbers. Worked at the university. The diamonds, the woman's ring. Our victim had something to hide."

"A room number or locker at the university," John reached the same conclusion as the consultant detective.

Lestrade holed himself up in his office with the blinds drawn; the tests on the diamonds had come back negative. There was no match between the diamonds on the bodies and those they intercepted a year ago but that didn't mean anything. They could still be linked. Perhaps from a different location. The suspects apprehended a year ago were still in prison but it was more than likely that those involved had employed others in their illegal pursuit.

With nothing else to go on and various interviews and questioning carried out on potential suspects and those who knew the victims Lestrade was left with little choice but to check up on Sherlock.

Sherlock checked the phone vibrating in his pocket. He'd usually ignore it, he was busy after all, but it could be Harriet. It was Lestrade. He pocketed the phone again. There were more pressing things to be attended to like finding the locker. They soon established the number on the ticket stub didn't apply to a room in the university. It was late and thankfully the corridors were empty. They were only stopped once and managed to pass as students with a deadline. No more questions had been asked.

Between them the locker had been located. John had taken one floor and Sherlock the other. It was John who found the locker outside a set of laboratories and summoned Sherlock who showed off his skills at lock picking as John stood on guard. Inside the locker was another pouch similar to those found on the bodies, there were diamonds inside and a slip of paper. John took the paper from Sherlock's outstretched palm that held the diamonds.

"Pass it to me dear," Harriet had managed to stuff up her knitting for the sixth time since she'd started and thanked Mrs Hudson for having patience to teach her. When Harriet had gone in search of the landlady come house keeper she had been after something to occupy her mind. Sitting upstairs in 221 B was becoming dull. When she'd knocked on Mrs Hudson's door the elderly woman asked who it was. After establishing that it was Harriet she told her to walk in. Harriet found Mrs Hudson engrossed in knitting a jumper in an interesting shade of green. It was a mouldy forest colour. Harriet's interruption of Mrs Hudson's knitting led to an impromptu knitting lesson for Harriet. "There you go," the small piece of knitting was handed back to her to continue with, "remember it's pearl this time."

"Yes, pearl," she mumbled to herself as she concentrated. Her intention was to make Sherlock a new scarf, a very misshapen scarf. Whether she finished it or not was an entirely different matter. Not wanting Mrs Hudson to witness her failings at knitting any further Harriet returned upstairs taking the knitting with her.

"Lestrade," Sherlock finally returned the attempt made by the detective inspector to contact him as they headed home to Baker Street, "there's another pouch of diamonds in locker H604 at the university." He hung up keeping the detail about the slip of paper to himself.

Harriet heard the Baker Street boys return creating a racket as they climbed the stairs. "Evening Harriet," John greeted. Sherlock kissed her on the cheek and hung up his coat. A very domestic notion for the consultant detective.

"Have you eaten?" Harriet asked immediately. Her stomach had grumbled for the past hour as she'd waited for them to return.

"No," John answered. Harriet dropped her knitting and went to the kitchen.

"Are you hungry?" she called. John's yes was balanced by Sherlock's no. It was the no that Harriet picked up on in her starved state. "You are bloody ridiculous!" Harriet spun on her heels and went to investigate the contents of the kitchen cupboards. Nothing. She found a tin of beans and put stale bread into the toaster. Sherlock Holmes was going to eat something and he was going to eat it with good grace.

"Miss Thornton, what are you doing?" Sherlock hadn't given the irate woman any thought as he concentrated upon the slip of paper in front of him until she snatched away the paper and set down a plate in front of him.

"Eat," she demanded.

He eyed the beans on toast with distaste, his gaze flicked up to Harriet then the paper, "I don't eat on a case."

"Eat," she repeated, "I'm not in the mood for you being an arse." John chuckled to himself.

"I didn't ask for food," Sherlock made a quick deduction of his significant other. Foot tapping. Hand on hip. Bags under eyes. Frown. "You didn't sleep well last night."

"How would you know? You weren't here. Now, eat," Harriet returned to the kitchen to clear away the dishes leaving the consultant detective to grumble to himself. She hadn't slept well since the funeral; a night alone had done nothing to improve matters

"Has it occurred to you," John began.

"Probably," Sherlock interjected. John gave up, it wasn't worth the argument not when Harriet had bought threw a plate of beans on toast for him grumbling that she was only doing it 'just this once.' Sherlock and John exchanged an amused smile. Harriet was sounding like her downstairs relation.

For the rest of the evening each of the inhabitants of Baker Street went about their own business. Harriet repeatedly picked up her knitting, attempted it and threw it down in frustration. John was watching television and Sherlock, using John's laptop, had looked up the details on the slip of paper that Harriet had returned to him. It was a postcode and a double figured number. The postcode sat within the Windsor area and the number indicated to jewellers. There was nothing he could do about it for the rest of the evening and so Sherlock returned to updating his website.

It was over breakfast the following morning when Sherlock received a text. He'd skipped breakfast and Harriet didn't have the guts to push the matter twice in a row. He was reading the newspaper as he waited for John to finish getting ready. Sherlock wanted to be at the address before the shops opened. His phone chimed from the table. Harriet was closest and pointed it out to Sherlock, "your phone."

"Hmmm," it chimed again as a reminder of the text message that had been received. Harriet glanced at the screen; it was from an unknown number. "Who is it from?" Sherlock turned a page of the broadsheet in his hands.

"Unknown number. It says I'm back in London. Let's do dinner," Harriet frowned. Wrong number?

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing. Apologies if this chapter is a bit choppy the Olympic games have a been a distraction. What has everyone been watching? I'm loving the tennis, swimming and beach volleyball. <strong>

**Gwilwillith- Thanks for pointing out the Miss not Mrs I'll sort that (having read the book I should have known it) **

**chaosrachel- Molly is brilliant!**

**Fionn Rose- It's a British tradition to complain about the weather, make the most of it we're back to rain this week. Glad you like the new cases, they've been a bit of challenge to write. **

**UndercoverCaptain- I really couldn't picture Mrs Holmes as anyone but Maggie Smith. **

**newtofanfic- The Irene Adler encounter is approaching. I missed the start of the opening ceremony to celebrate a friends birthday but caught it from about 9.30. I did watch it again the next day to see the rest. Think I might have to watch Sherlock again in preparation for the the TRF chapters, it will have to do for a Sherlock fix for now. **


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

'_**He who is overly attached to his family members experiences fear and sorrow, for the root of all grief is attachment. Thus one should discard attachment to be happy'**__**  
><strong>_**Chanakya**

John was taking his time getting ready. Sherlock was getting impatient but the text; oh that text had been a glorious distraction. The Woman. He kept his amusement to himself.

"Who wants to have dinner?" Harriet asked trying to sound casual but Sherlock saw right through it. The consultant detective was tempted to play a game with Harriet but thought better of it. His conscience had reared its ugly head and told him not to.

Sherlock considered her question for a moment. The magazines of Harriet's that he'd flicked through in a moment of boredom had rambled on about honesty, but this was The Woman, "wrong number." Sherlock deleted the text and pocketed his phone.

Harriet was left alone with her knitting and Mrs Hudson for company once Sherlock and John left. The knitting didn't last long after mucking it up and asking the landlady to fix it twice in the end she gave in. Harriet soon craved another pursuit. There was food shopping to be done but that meant going outside alone leaving only two other choices: Jeremy Kyle or ironing. Harriet settled for ironing whilst watching Jeremy Kyle. It wasn't as fun as watching it with Sherlock picking the truth from the contestants as they appeared on screen for the first time. Harriet attempted it and got it wrong, twice.

Sherlock dragged John along with him to the jewellers in Windsor and stood outside. So far the slip of paper was fit. "There's some expensive jewellery in the window, are we going inside?" John prompted his friend.

"I'm not looking for a ring," Sherlock answered back and opened the door to the shop. The bell above tinkled.

John followed, "Right, of course you're not," it was Sherlock after all buying a ring for someone wasn't in his repertoire.

"Can I help you, sirs?" an elderly man greeted them from behind the polished counter. Every wall within the shop was lined with glass and every surface within shone in comparison to the counter.

"Ah, yes, I'm looking for a ring," Sherlock began.

"But you just said," John was confused. Was this for the case?

"Certainly. What sort of ring?" the old man's eyes sparkled with the prospect of a potential sale. As of late times had been hard. Gold prices had sky rocketed and with the increase in ethical conditions in mines prices on gems. Sherlock deduced the man in seconds. He wasn't their suspect. The only criminal activity the old man was likely to have been involved in was an unpaid library fine.

The consultant detective had a theory. The diamonds in the pouches were by no means legal. Blood diamonds. There was an illegal diamond trade operating from within London run by the very people that campaigned against it and all that operated from the jewellers they were stood in but the man behind the counter he was not involved. "I moved the ruby's into the safe," a younger man entered through the door behind the counter. This man was.

Bruised right hand knuckles. Grey feather left hand collar of shirt, unnoticed. Congo African Grey parrot. Lives alone. Middle-aged. Related to man behind counter. These were all important details to Sherlock. The bruised right knuckles were the giveaway. The first victim had put up a fight.

The man looked up at the two customers. His eyes widened in recognition. The two detectives from the papers. Sherlock Holmes and his assistant. "Visited the Congo recently?" Sherlock called the man out. He panicked and darted out the door he'd just come through. Sherlock sprung to life leaping over the counter. His shoes scuffing the polished surface.

"Sherlock!" John shouted and tailed the pair. The old man manning the counter was left in a daze as the scene unfolded.

The man had a head start on them. He was out the back door of the shop, down the back alley and out into the main road within seconds. Sherlock's long legs soon closed the gap and he vaulted over a brick wall to land in the road. A glance around locked his suspect in his sights once again. They tore down the road, John had to apologise to people as he went. Their suspect rounded a corner and took off down another road. He darted down a set of slippery stone steps where a river emerged from under layers of concrete and brickwork. The suspect slipped into the dark tunnel and out of sight. By this point John had caught up and taking the steps two at a time joined Sherlock at the entrance to the tunnel.

Smell. That was the first sense that John was aware of in the dark opening of the tunnel. It was damp and smelt of rot. Pulling his jumper over his nose in attempt to block the smell John continued the chase. Again Sherlock had been first off the mark. A few yards in the light completely disappeared. The only sounds that could be heard were the dripping of water from the tunnel roof and the splash of footsteps in shallow water.

Sherlock tore down the tunnel. The man was close. Sherlock could hear his breathing as he gave chase. He grabbed him by the arm spinning him around and pinning him against the cold wet wall of the tunnel. It wasn't enough. Their suspect pushed him back into the water. Sherlock groaned. His coat was ruined. John saw his chance and tackled the man to the floor earning him a face full of foul tasting water. He spat it out as Sherlock dragged the man to his feet. Between them they pinned him against the wall.

With his free hand Sherlock was able to retrieve his phone from his pocket the thickness of his coat having protected it from too much water damage. No signal. They would have to march the man from the tunnel before calling for Lestrade.

Harriet was bored she even found herself calling "bored!" aloud to no one. She blamed Sherlock entirely for that one. The ironing had been finished and the knitting just wasn't appealing leaving Harriet with very little to do except watch television. She supposed that she needed to find herself a job in London but Moriarty still remained at large and capable of walking right into her classroom. Not to mention Sherlock who would find some way to interfere. She resigned herself to speaking with him on the issue once his current case was over.

The doorbell to Baker Street rang mid-afternoon. It was the distraction that Harriet needed. The gardening show on the television had lost its appeal within the first five minutes. Baker Street didn't have a garden she could potter about it not that she would back home in the first place. Harriet expected Mrs Hudson to answer the door, she usually did but it rang again. As Harriet braved the front door Mrs Hudson appeared in the hallway. "I'll get it dear," she bustled past leaving Harriet hanging back in the hallway.

"Is my son here?" the woman at the door demanded. Mrs Hudson turned back to Harriet who shrugged, unable to see the woman. It was more than likely something to do with Sherlock.

"There's no one here but us," Mrs Hudson answered. The woman ignored her and barged past.

Harriet's sight landed on the woman. She was as old as Mrs Hudson. The woman wore a crushed velvet jacket in a deep shade of violet with a beige skirt making Harriet's mother's fashion sense look good. "This is 221 Baker Street?" The woman pressed, taking a dark pair of gloves from her hands.

"Yes," Harriet found her voice. The woman looked as if she'd stepped from a period drama of sorts.

"Then my son is here," Harriet had a feeling she knew where this was going. Who else did she know who had a talent for barging into people's homes? The woman regarded Harriet for a moment. It was the eyes that clarified the woman's identity to Harriet. They had the same piercing depth to them. "You must be Harriet. Mycroft said you were amiable," the last bit intended as an insult, "and Mrs Hudson my son's house keeper. Charming home."

"I'm not his house keeper," Mrs Hudson answered, "I'm his land lady."

"How about you come upstairs for some tea?" Harriet proposed glad that her boredom had led to her squaring the place up a bit. Mrs Holmes allowed Harriet to show her the way up the stairs.

"That's Sherlock's mother. What are we supposed to do with her?" Harriet was panicking slightly as she passed Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson shared in Harriet's panic, "I don't know. She can't be that bad, can she?" Out of her depth entertaining the woman who bought the world's only consultant detective into the world Harriet sent a quick text to Sherlock as she followed up the stairs.

_Next time warn me when I'll be entertaining your mother. - HT_

John and Sherlock were on their way back to Baker Street when Sherlock received a text. Sherlock groaned dramatically. John read the text over Sherlock's shoulder out of interest as to what could have caused the man to make such a noise. He laughed at his friend's misfortune, "you didn't know either?"

"No John, do you think I would willingly invite my mother over? This is Mycroft's doing," Sherlock rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Today wasn't his day. He'd ruined his coat, the text from Irene and now his mother. John decided it was best not to comment. Most normal people would invite their parents over from time to time but this was Sherlock the man who had no place for sentiment.

A commotion signalled the return of John and Sherlock, the door slammed behind their entrance. "That'll be the boys back," Harriet got up and bolted down the stairs. "You insufferable arse," Harriet stomped down the last few stairs. "Oh god!" she clamped a hand over her nose, "you stink, where have you been?" her question was muffled through her hand. Sherlock turned to answer but Harriet cut him off, "on second thoughts I don't think I want to know. Just take your clothes off."

"John as well?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes," she replied. Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"I don't want John taking his clothes off in front of you," Sherlock answered, he already had his purple shirt off distracting Harriet.

"I was going to my room. Unlike you I'm not a fan of walking around without clothes on," John shook his head and left.

"I was wearing a sheet!" Sherlock called after his friend

"You were in Buckingham Palace!" John yelled back.

Harriet processed what she'd just heard, "you went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet?" Of course he went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet. "Sherlock your mother is upstairs, thank you for that by the way; do you think you can manage to keep your clothes on till you get up there?"

"I didn't invite her," he replied smartly and headed up the stairs, "Mother, what a pleasant surprise," Harriet heard his greeting as she entered the room. For the next few minutes Sherlock defended himself against his mother's disapproving comments about his current state of attire. Harriet went to retrieve a wash basket from Mrs Hudson; she would have to commandeer her washing machine. In Harriet's opinion the less time spent in the company of the company of Mrs Holmes the better. Having wasted enough time filling Mrs Hudson in on the reappearance of the boys Harriet returned upstairs.

"Sherlock when will you get a proper job?" Mrs Holmes voice filtered out through the door Harriet had left open.

"I'm a consultant detective," Sherlock had now changed into a new suit and a customary dressing gown.

"Sit down. Both of you," Harriet wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. That was never a good start to a conversation. Harriet did as she was bid; Sherlock on the other hand walked towards the window and took up his violin. "Now what do you do for a living?" Mrs Holmes wasted no time in questioning Harriet.

"Mycroft has already told you what Miss Thornton does for a living," Sherlock paused his playing. "He more than likely sent you a file with every detail about Miss Thornton's life including the amount in her bank account."

Mrs Holmes waved her son's smart arse behaviour, "I want to hear it from Harriet." For the next ten minutes Harriet received a grilling from the Holmes matriarch with little or no help from Sherlock who played his violin in a world of his own.

"What I really want to know is why my son felt that he didn't need to tell me he'd found himself a girlfriend. Mycroft and I were beginning to give up hope of you ever one," Mrs Holmes shifted in her seat to glare at her son. The world girlfriend had stopped Sherlock mid-way through Beethoven's Spring Sonata.

"I-I-I really don't think I can answer that one," Harriet mumbled, "Sherlock?" Her consultant detective remained silent; "I really mustn't leave those clothes any longer," Harriet excused herself and went to retrieve John's clothes and some moral support. If she had to answer more questions about her favourite authors, religious views or choice of employment she would scream.

"She's very domestic," Mrs Holmes commented as Harriet disappeared. The woman had clearly never washed a dish in her life what did she know about domesticity.

Harriet knocked on John's door and entered. He was sat on his bed reading. "Got another book in here?" Harriet perched on the end of the bed.

"Is she that bad?" John tried to hide his amusement.

"She's Sherlock's mother," Harriet grumbled.

"I see your point, he must have gotten it from someone," John laughed.

Eventually Mrs Holmes left much to everyone's relief. John had joined them shortly after Harriet left with his wet clothes. He was just as eager as Harriet to find out about the woman but had enough tact to keep out of the way to start with.

"I can't wear that," Sherlock dropped the coat carelessly onto the sofa.

"Harriet washed it," John clarified. Harriet had painstakingly ensured that it had kept its shape throughout the wash and wondered what he could possibly find wrong with the coat.

"It's missing a button," Sherlock

"So you're not going?" John checked. The consultant detective had reluctantly accepted a case via email.

Sherlock flung himself into his chair and clasped his hands together, "it was a five at best."

"For god's sake," Harriet flung down her tea towel and stomped into the lounge grabbing the coat and disappearing out of the door and down the stairs. She returned several minutes later with a small box covered in a hideous fabric. Silently she sat down on the sofa and took out a needle and thread then cut the spare button from the label on his coat. A slight panic rose in Sherlock at the sight of the scissors so close to his precious coat. Within minutes Harriet had reattached the button. She thrust the coat at Sherlock and put the sewing things away.

Sherlock shrugged on his coat, "come on John," and carried on as if his dramatic sulk had never happened. He kissed Harriet on the cheek and fled out the door shouting to join to hurry up.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay so Sherlock's mother, fun times. I was hoping to fit Irene into this chapter but it wasn't to be so she'll be in the next. I have it part written already but I'm off to a festival for the weekend so there probably won't be another update until next weekend. As always thanks to everyone who is reading :D<strong>

**Gwilwillith- sorry, going to make you wait longer for the woman's full return :p**

**chaosrachel- lovely review as always**

**UndercoverCaptain- Haha I'll keep that idea in mind, we certainly can't have Irene one-upping Harriet.**

**Fionn Rose- I thought the James Bond bit was good too but the whole industrial revolution bit with the rings was pretty clever as for the team entrances the Czechs with wellies and umbrellas was fabulous! **


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

'_**I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying'**__**  
><strong>_**Oscar Wilde**

John Watson had observed his fellow household members for most of the week. Sherlock had busied himself with the diamond case and as usual John had accompanied him. Whether it was to keep the consultant detective out of trouble or the thrill of it for himself he was still unsure of. Maybe it was both. Every case was the same but now the case was over. Sherlock was off pursuing a 'five at best' leaving Harriet with the message he would be home in time for dinner. John had to put up with Harriet's grumbling upon his return home whilst Sherlock remained out, "the cheek of that man, I'm not a maid or a cook and I'm certainly not doing what he demands," John had been tempted to ask what was for dinner but the irate woman stopped him in his tracks with her comment, "I'll tell your where Sherlock can shove his dinner request." It was in the ex-army doctors best interest to remain quiet whilst he wrote up the latest case on his blog and in his opinion it was in Sherlock's best interest to listen to the advice he was about to send via text.

_You are taking Harriet out to dinner at _7- _John_

The blog occupied John for most of the afternoon. Harriet flitted about the flat around him. She was restless. When John suggested they go out for a bit of fresh air she gave him an excuse about their being housework to do. He didn't press the matter but to him the flat looked spotless, well, with the exception of the kitchen table cluttered in all things Sherlock.

Harriet hadn't left the flat in well over a week she had barricaded herself within the walls with a small armoury of excuses. Mrs Hudson had expressed her concern to John the previous day and urged him to talk to Sherlock about it but it was Sherlock. Sentiment and concern for a person's emotional state seemed beyond the capability of his brilliance. However, where Harriet was involved the consultant detective had surprised everyone not that Sherlock made it public knowledge. His relationship with Harriet was on a strictly need to know basis.

Eventually a reply arrived from Sherlock. He had been off at a warehouse on the outskirts of London that was seeing its stock disappear overnight and up until his involvement the police had been unsuccessful in apprehending the crook.

_If I wanted dating advice I would ask someone in a relationship- SH_

John wasn't surprised by the text. It was completely untrue. He was the only person Sherlock came to for advice and even then it was a rare occasion. With this in mind John sent a message to Mike Stamford with the proposal of a catch-up over a few drinks to escape the inevitable silence he would receive from the consultant detective upon the solving of the case. With plans made for his evening he finally sent a reply to Sherlock.

Now that their dinner was sorted John had one more mission for the afternoon but he needed to approach it carefully, "Harriet?" The young woman was turning the pages of an old leather bound book from Sherlock's collection. The writing on the spine had faded with time. She looked up from her book. "Sherlock just text, wants me to tell you that he's taking you out to dinner." He meant no offense to Harriet but he could fool her unlike Sherlock. She needn't know that John had arranged the whole dinner.

Harriet snapped the book shut losing her page in the process. "I suppose it's no use asking why he text you and not me directly, will we ever understand him?" really what she was saying was Sherlock was as reluctant as she was to go out for dinner. John had orchestrated this move on the consultant detective's part.

John wheeled out Mrs Hudson's favourite answer, "he's Sherlock. Shall I tell him yes then?"

Getting out of the flat sounded like a fantastic idea to Harriet but she couldn't go. Baker Street was safe. "I was going to cook," it was a feeble excuse.

John sighed to himself. For Sherlock to find himself a woman that woman would have to be equally challenging at times and in Harriet's defence she was usually only difficult with Sherlock but not this time. "Let him take you out for dinner. It's not often the great Sherlock Holmes takes a lady out to dinner," John was going for humour.

Harriet needed an excuse. Going out just wasn't going to happen. She was buying for time until her mind could fathom a plausible excuse, "He said he'd be home for dinner, why change his mind?" John shrugged also trying to come up with an excuse. Over the last few weeks he had become increasingly concerned for the young teachers welfare. She needed to leave the house once in a while. "I'm sure he'd be fine with staying home. What plans have you got for tonight?" she asked as a way of diverting the conversation.

"Harriet, what is this really about?" John cut straight to the chase. She was silent. This weakness of hers was pathetic. How could a person not to want go outside? "Moriarty," John cut through her thoughts. Had Sherlock been around he would have noted the panic that possessed Harriet at the mention of the name. The pursed lips, fidgeting and increased heart rate all pointed towards fear. John had spent enough time with Sherlock to become more observant, "To leave the flat would risk a run in with Moriarty. He's taken so much from you that the only thing you have left is us and Baker Street. You feel safe here." If the situation was not so serious John would have found amusement in the fact that someone felt safe in the home of Sherlock Holmes. The home where he shot holes in the walls, where he shot the doorbell on multiple occasions, where body parts filled the fridge and on more than one occasion he bought back a shady character or two.

Up until his point John had never made Harriet feel exposed but he had just hit the nail on the head. She was stupid to think she could get away with hiding away inside Baker Street. The only reason she got away with it so far had been Sherlock's cases. It kept him occupied so she could hide away.

"If he really wanted to Moriarty could get to us inside Baker Street. Before we met you Moriarty strapped a bomb to my chest. Sherlock found me in time," John hoped that sharing this information might help her but Harriet wasn't like him. She didn't crave danger like he did.

Finally Harriet found her words, "I trust Sherlock, I trust you and Mrs Hudson but people on the street. I can't trust them."

"So you're just going to hide away in here?" John hadn't meant to sound so harsh surprising both himself and Harriet.

"Not forever," she said feebly.

"Then go put something nice on and go out for dinner with Sherlock," John tried again. She hadn't asked for any of this. He stopped her before she left the room, still dissatisfied that she was comfortable with going out, "Sherlock cares about you and its Sherlock, for him that's something very important. Talk to him about this. Moriarty said he would burn Sherlock through you and so far he's doing a pretty good job of it but don't give him the satisfaction. Hiding away and avoiding the matter isn't helping things."

She left the living room with no choice but to go to dinner. Sherlock would no doubt drag her out in what she was wearing something he'd threatened to do before. Harriet peered into her small section of Sherlock's wardrobe. That had been an argument upon her arrival at Baker Street for good. Sherlock had his clothes organised, it was an obsession. The sock index was more than enough proof. He didn't want Harriet, having seen the state of her wardrobe and the suitcase when she was house sitting, cluttering it and making a mess. Harriet had won that argument and now a small selection of clothes sat neatly to one side of the wardrobe and in as graceful a fashion Sherlock Holmes could muster he had allowed her the use of a draw.

Since the fire Harriet had very few clothes and most of those she bought for scruffing around the house in with very little need to look smart for teaching or going out. They were clothes she felt comfortable in. Drawing attention to herself wasn't in anyway appealing. Sherlock had passed a comment on her terrible taste in patterned pyjamas on numerous occasions, usually regarding the loss of the owl pyjamas he'd become fond of apparently the zebra ones didn't meet his high standards.

A bath. That was what Harriet needed. She could decide what she would say in her talk with Sherlock as she soaked in the warm water. What could she say to a high functioning sociopath to make him understand?

_It wasn't advice. Table booked at Hourglass. 7pm. –John_

Sherlock scowled at his phone. John should really sort out his own love life before attempting to interfere in his and besides he'd told Harriet he'd be home for dinner. That implied she would do what women had done for years and cook a meal that hopefully extended beyond the culinary masterpiece of beans on toast that was forced on hum. With his 'five at best' solved, it really wasn't a mind boggling issue, Sherlock made a passing trip to St. Bart's to sweet talk Molly into letting him have a severed foot.

After the fourth attempt the consultant detective gave up on getting a taxi back to Baker Street, no one wanted to transport someone with a severed foot in a box. Disgruntled by the various drivers attitude towards him and his foot Sherlock was reduced to getting the underground. At least he didn't have to worry about anyone sitting near him with the foot. He walked the short distance from the tube station to Baker Street and slammed the door behind him after ringing the doorbell for Mrs Hudson to open the door. Locating keys was out of the question.

Sherlock couldn't smell any cooking going on. Had John informed her of the inconsiderate plans he'd made? Sherlock groaned to himself. The foot would have to wait.

Harriet was sat in front of the television. She smiled at Sherlock when he walked through the door, "John passed on your message about going to dinner." There was brightness to her voice that had been lacking as of late.

"Did he now?" Sherlock glared at his so called friend. He'd played dirty.

Aware of what was more than likely to come John played innocent and with a slight quirk of the lips added his pennies worth, "Let me know what the food is like. I've heard it's excellent."

"I'm sure you have," Sherlock muttered darkly. His words were muffled by the sound of the box dropping onto the table. If he had no choice but to go to dinner the foot would have to go in the freezer.

"Oh you've bought a foot home," Harriet had long since accepted Sherlock's eccentricities, "how nice. I'm sure there's space next to the peas in the bottom draw."

Sherlock appreciated her sarcasm, "The draw with John's ice cream has the most room."

She smiled wide, "you're right, god forbid the peas should be crushed."

"That would be criminal," Sherlock added. John adjusted his screen on his laptop and ignored the pair.

Now that Sherlock was home Harriet went to change into the clothes laid out on the bed; a pale green silk top, knee length black skirt with tights and a pair of dark grey brogues on her feet. Her hair was tucked into a tidy bun. She even made the effort to fish out her eye liner. She had to look good it gave her the mind set to prove she was perfectly okay and that Moriarty couldn't have the satisfaction.

"You've scrubbed up well," John commented when he caught sight of Harriet.

Sherlock couldn't agree more but went for a less enthusiastic appreciation, "stunning would be a better description." Harriet smiled at his comment. It boosted her confidence for going out although that may have had more to do with the large glass of wine she'd taken into the bath with her. "Shall we," Sherlock hadn't taken his coat of; he retrieved Harriet's grey woollen coat and held it out for her. He saw John nod his head in approval.

"I spoke to John before you got home," Sherlock suspected John's interference with Harriet's emotional state and hummed in acknowledgement allowing her to continue. He was staring directly at her. Her eye contact wavered under his intense gaze. What she had prepared to say had gone completely from her mind. Sherlock watched her open her mouth and close it again with a frown. He was tempted to tell her exactly what she was going to say but had learnt enough to realise that if he did he would end up eating dinner alone. "This is ridiculous," Harriet muttered to herself.

"I quite agree," Sherlock answered her muttering.

Harriet smiled, "of course you do." Silence fell whilst Harriet attempted to collect her thoughts. "Here's the thing," she finally began meeting Sherlock's eyes for the first time since the conversation began. "John think's I'm letting Moriarty get to me, he said I was avoiding leaving the house."

Sherlock topped up Harriet's wine glass with the bottle on the table, "try again." Harriet sat back not expecting his request. Naturally Sherlock saw straight through her attempt at denying she was struggling.

"_I,_" Harriet resigned herself to her fate with emphasis on the I, "am letting Moriarty have the upper hand in this childish game. Letting him win." She had to word her next sentence carefully, "I've lost Dan and he meant the world to me. God knows when I'll see mum again. If he gets to me he gets to you and he has got to me. I don't know what to do anymore? I can't lose you as well."

"I am already aware of the facts and that John told you to talk to me," there it was, classic Sherlock, avoiding any form of emotional conversation. "He's been interfering a lot today." He decided that concentrating on the facts was his best course of action. Facts were proven and reliable. _I can't lose you as well,_ it was sentiment but it was also proven. She couldn't lose him. He began to wonder what he would do if he lost Harriet. He would still have John and Mrs Hudson but they weren't Harriet.

"Did he speak to you already? He told me to talk to you," Harriet felt betrayed that John would talk about her to Sherlock. She didn't see the distant look on the consultant's detective's face.

"No he didn't say anything. I made a deduction," there was that triumphant look on his face usually associated with knowing something that no one else did. That kind of response was safe. It left no room for sentiment to creep in.

"And you didn't say anything?" Harriet pressed trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. If he deduced her to her face it would have saved embarrassment on her part. Harriet was already mortified that she was being so pathetic.

"It was not important, what is important is that it has taken you this long to discuss the matter with me," he confessed. The people sat around them watched them bicker. The pair was both oblivious to the looks they were receiving. Sherlock had stayed calm throughout their conversation.

"Not important! Oh right yes, how silly of me," Harriet missed the second part of his statement and instead focussed in on the first. Sherlock Holmes had just demonstrated he could be a supporting partner and she was oblivious. "Criminals are more important."

Sherlock looked affronted at her remarks but dropped the matter having spotted the waiter with their food. They ate in silence. After her first mouthful Harriet slammed her cutlery down, "This arguing is pointless. You asked me to dinner so let's just have dinner in peace."

"I didn't ask you," Sherlock kept the rest of his reply to himself. Harriet really didn't need to be told that going out to dinner in a classy restaurant was something he didn't want to do. It didn't take a genius with a brain the size of a planet to figure that out.

"Excuse me?"

"John arranged it all," He stated matter of factly.

"Oh," Harriet was disappointed. She lost her appetite but tried her hardest to eat as much as she could. Sherlock cleared his plate before she'd decided she'd eaten enough. Deep down Harriet realised that she was stupid for expecting Sherlock do something as sweet as take her out for dinner. It was what normal couples did and they weren't a normal couple. They were a high function sociopath with a made up job title and an unemployed teacher caught up in a game with a criminal who also happened to have a made up job title. Was there any love in their relationship? Harriet was head over heels for the consultant detective and despite her initial reluctance to get involved in another relationship after breaking up with her fiancé she was in love with the insufferable man but she wasn't sure about him. Could he even feel love? Were high functioning sociopath's capable of that? He was attached to her that much was certain but the question she found herself asking was could she live with that. Did she want more from him? More importantly was she going to get more?

Sherlock took note of her lack of appetite that was his fault. Guilt washed over him. "Dessert?" he asked now trying to fix the guilty feeling.

Harriet hesitated, "I just want to go home."

"Miss Thornton, Harriet. Please order desert," at hearing her first name Harriet began to consider it. He only ever called her Harriet when he was being sincere.

"I'm not hungry anymore," her half full plate had been enough proof of that.

"When you sat down the first thing you looked at was the desert menu. Third down. White chocolate and raspberry cheesecake," Harriet didn't get a choice when Sherlock ordered dessert and coffees from the waiter. Dinner had been a challenging affair something Harriet didn't want to prolong so she didn't argue against Sherlock's control and accepted desert.

"I should have asked you if you wanted to go for dinner," it wasn't an apology but a realisation.

"Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not expecting you-"

"What if I wanted to ask?" he interrupted her.

"You don't have to ask me out to dinner to show you care so shall we just forget the meal and enjoy the rest of our evening?" Harriet proposed aware that she may have been equally unreasonable in their dinnertime discussion but at the same time wanting to find out if Sherlock cared for her in the same way she did for him or had she now become another constant in his life like John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade?

"Can we walk back?" Harriet asked despite the cold. She huddled further into her coat and fixed her scarf to keep the bare skin of her neck hidden. Sherlock regarded her for a moment. Flushed cheeks. Red nose. She was cold. He stepped towards the edge of the pavement and raised his arm to hail a taxi. Harriet caught it mid-air. "I'd like to walk, please." With a resigned sigh Sherlock linked his arm with hers. He wanted to know why she wanted to walk. After weeks hidden away in Baker Street and his inability to get closer to Moriarty he couldn't come up with a logical reason.

As they walked Sherlock thought about what Harriet had said over dinner. Her frustrations and fears were the result of Moriarty. If only he was closer to catching him out then she wouldn't worry. He didn't like to see her worried. "I haven't stopped Moriarty yet," Sherlock cut through the silence that had consumed their walk.

Harriet turned her head to look up at Sherlock. He avoided eye contact and concentrated on staring ahead. "That's okay." She had to believe that it was. It got her up in the morning and helped her sleep at night.

There was genuine surprise from the consultant detective, "It is?"

"Yes. Oh it would be great if the bastard was stopped but right now I'm pissed about something else," Harriet kept her words dangerously low and her face straight. Her 'Miss Thornton means business face' the one she used in the classroom. The temptation to glance at Sherlock's response to her mini-rant was too great but she persevered and focussed her attention straight ahead.

"Dinner," it wasn't a question but a statement. Sherlock thought she was over their small disagreement at dinner but apparently not. It was a not he made for future reference; women can't let something go.

"Bingo," Harriet was too frustrated to care about her snarky attitude.

"Do you really think that I hadn't worked it out? That there were no way you could have illustrated this whole meal without some form of interference from John. He would have had to have made sure you weren't taking me off on one of your cases afterwards. Yet the stupid romantic part of me chose to believe that maybe you were doing something romantic and sweet. As much as you are married to your work I'm a girl and sometimes us girls like soppy romantic nonsense like dinners and walks in the park. Bringing home flowers and chocolates not severed feet."

Where did Harriet get these ideas? The magazines that were filled with useless dribble? No. Somewhere else. The books. Sherlock made a note to throw out any kind of romantic novel on his shelves. There weren't many but with Harriet living there more and more had begun to creep in. "You read too many books," Sherlock spoke up. Sherlock thought about her outburst for a moment. Flowers, he'd bought her some of those. Walks in the park those sounded incredibly dull unless a case took him there. This got Sherlock wondering, "Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Want to join me on a case?" Sherlock hated repeating himself.

Harriet had been involved in one too many investigations since meeting Sherlock to know that the best thing she could do would turn down his offer an offer she knew didn't get offered to just anyone. Only John held that privilege and now she had joined the ranks. "God no but I might think about going shopping. Get some new shoes," Harriet was never going to get over her irrational fear of leaving the house if she remained in doors. Going shoe shopping would be a big step for her. Harriet wondered if Mrs Hudson might like to join her. "It'll do me good to get some fresh air," Sherlock wasn't convinced by her words but his conscience, that sounded suspiciously like John, told him not to shatter her returning confidence.

"Errrgh. Boring," Sherlock commented.

"Careful, I might take you along," it was an empty threat on Harriet's part.

As they continued to walk down the street and turned onto the next Sherlock could feel Harriet relax more. It had taken an entire evening out for her to feel comfortable outside Baker Street. His arm linked with hers and the heat of his body was a comfort to her mind. Harriet's mind wondered back to the dinner conversation, really, in the grand scheme of things their dinner had gone well. He hadn't abandoned her for a case, hadn't deduced the waiter at least not out loud and hadn't said anything too harsh. She was picking faults and he wasn't the only person in the world with them.

_Did she want more from him?_ The question hadn't disappeared all evening. She stole a glance at the stoic man the insufferable pain in the arse with his high cheek bones and curled mop of hair. _'I don't need a girlfriend,' _he'd said and she'd equally answered him, _'I don't need a boyfriend.'_ Yet here they were.

Again she glanced at him. "Penny for your thoughts," he caught her eye. She turned her head in embarrassment that he'd caught her ogling him.

"Just thinking," she mumbled.

"About?"

"You're telling me that you don't know. I thought you could read minds," she teased.

The corner of Sherlock's lip lifted, "I don't read minds, I observe."

Sherlock opened the door and ushered Harriet inside. As he closed the door and locked it behind him Harriet removed her scarf and with numb fingers tried to tackle the buttons on her coat. Sherlock took pity on her although why he should when she had refused a warm taxi home. The cold was her own fault. He pulled her hands to her sides and unfastened the buttons. "Thank you," she reached up and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek not as a romantic gesture but a ridiculous notion of proving that she had control over the situation. At the last second he turned his head and instead caught her lips with his own. Her gasp was the only audible sound in the silent hall. The cheek of that man! Forgetting the disastrous dinner she smiled and bought her hands up to his face keeping him there so she could kiss him again. It was a game. Their evening had been far from romantic. This was Sherlock proving he had the upper hand and Harriet trying to convince herself that none of it mattered.

"The purple shirt is my favourite," she murmured against his lips, "you don't wear it very often." Her hands slipped to the top button on his shirt.

"Miss Thornton, Harriet," there it was that tone low tone of voice that sent her week at the knees but she wasn't going to give in to him, "not here." Harriet recollected herself. They were in the hall. The Hall! Mrs Hudson could catch them or John.

She removed her hands from their position on Sherlock's shirt and picked her scarf up from the floor.

"You lose," she muttered as she passed the consultant detective and onto the bottom step of the stairs giving her the height advantage.

In the blink of an eye Sherlock had stepped closer smashing his lips to hers for the briefest of moments before taking off upstairs, "I think not."

"Smug git," Harriet mumbled under her breath finally accepting defeat.

Sherlock froze at the top of the stairs. He sniffed and closed his eyes in frustration. He would recognise the smell anywhere. Perfume. The woman's perfume. Inside Sherlock was kicking himself. This was exactly why sentiment, feelings and caring, all of them, didn't matter. He'd missed it. Irene Adler could have been Moriarty and he wouldn't have known. With no use putting off the inevitable Sherlock opened the door.

Harriet noticed Sherlock's strange behaviour but it was Sherlock, there was nothing to do but to run with it. "Wearing clothes I see," he observed immediately. What was he on about? Of course she was wearing clothes he'd refrained from taken them off her in the entrance hall. She followed him into the flat, stopping in her tracks at the sight of a woman sat in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock's comment about clothes was forgotten.

"No funny hat I see," the woman countered.

"Milan not to your liking?" Sherlock asked.

The woman smiled, "expensive fashion houses and Italian men. What's not to like?"

Harriet watched on not knowing what to make of this latest development. John was going out with Stamford and not a date. She hadn't seen John so this woman wasn't his date and besides Sherlock knew her. Sherlock knew another woman. It didn't sound right. She wasn't jealous more surprised at the thought of it.

The woman sat in Sherlock's chair was a sight to behold. Her hair was pinned up neatly, a bright red lipstick had been applied to her lips and the dress she wore was maroon in colour. Harriet's eyes fell on the knee high black boots with the stiletto heel on the woman feet.

"You like?" she stuck out her leg to reveal the whole of boot when she saw Harriet looking at her, "Marina Nantoli, Italian leather. A gift."

Sherlock couldn't care less for the shoes, "You know the designer." He already knew her answer.

"I know what she likes," Irene said coyly.

It was at this point that Harriet interrupted what she had now decided was definitely flirting and not a catch up with a friend, "I don't understand." She ignored the woman occupying Sherlock's chair and instead addressed her question at Sherlock.

"Miss Thornton meet Irene Adler," Sherlock would rather not introduce the pair.

Irene smiled thinly, "Pleasure to meet you."

Harriet still didn't understand, was she supposed to know who Irene Adler was? "Are you a friend of Sherlock's?" she felt the need to ask.

"He saved my life."

"He's good at that," Harriet answered back. Who was she kidding of course she was jealous. Sherlock turned away towards the window and found himself in a situation he'd never been in before. Moments ago his inner red blooded male was about to have a very satisfying end to an evening and now Irene Adler was presenting a problem. Why was she here? She obviously wanted something. It had Sherlock's attention already.

"He's good at a lot of things. Brainy is the new sexy," the last part of Irene's sentence was aimed at the enigmatic consultant detective and not the woman occupying his home.

"Did you want something?" Harriet asked. If her mother was here she'd clip her around the ear for being rude to a guest. One thing was certain Harriet wasn't offering tea. There was something about the woman that irked her.

"Oh, she's threatened," Irene looked smug.

Harriet crossed her arms, "I'm not threatened."

Irene laughed to herself, "how sweet. I would love to have my wicked way with you." Her voice took on a dangerous tone.

Still not totally understanding what was going on Harriet had enough of a grasp to take offense, "and what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means-" Irene smiled wickedly.

Sherlock finally interrupted the women, "Miss Adler is a dominatrix." Harriet blinked at him. Had she heard that correctly?

"Right," what was she supposed to say to that?

"Oh he's going to be disappointed. The Holmes brothers, the ice man and the virgin except you're not. No," Irene eyed Harriet up like prey, "he'll need a new nickname for you."

"He?" Harriet inquired.

"Moriarty."

"Sherlock," Harriet began to panic. This woman knew Moriarty, was she there on his behalf? More importantly why hadn't Sherlock kicked her out?

The consultant detective stepped towards Harriet but was stopped in his tracks by Irene getting up from his chair. Annoyed he shut his eyes and opened them. They burnt into Irene with an intense fury. "Step aside Miss Adler; I don't care for your games."

Irene looked between Harriet and Sherlock, "no. I can see that."

Harriet was trembling as Sherlock guided her down into John's chair. "We were having a nice night. Moriarty. Oh, Sherlock I thought it would be okay to go out."

"Moriarty isn't here. Miss Adler is stirring," Sherlock reassured whilst giving a dirty look to the woman, "call John. Ask him to come home."

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded of Irene as Harriet took her phone from her bag.

Irene revealed the reason behind her visit, "I have information."

Harriet called John but over the loud music in the background he couldn't hear her so she hung up and sent a text. She was eager to return to the conversation in the room. Harriet decided that Irene Adler could not be trusted. She tuned in to Sherlock's response, "What? You couldn't send an email or text?"

Until now Harriet hadn't noticed the bag Irene had with her. It matched her shoes. She reached inside and pulled out a wad of a4 sheets folded in half. She opened them out and laid them onto the table. Curiosity got the better of Harriet; she had to keep up with Sherlock and Irene. They were drawings, "designs," she spoke aloud. Each drawing was of an outfit that had been painstakingly drawn and coloured in. Sherlock cast a brief glance and walked away. Harriet sifted through them, "where did you get these?" A design for a patterned bag had caught her attention.

"The same place I got the boots," Irene drew Harriet's attention to the boots again.

Harriet was in awe at the designs, "this one is a bit," she didn't finish her sentence but looked at Irene. It was a revealing dress of black lace.

Sherlock had enough of the women fawning over clothes, he was growing impatient. "Those designs are the phone," he stated.

For a moment Irene was stunned that he'd hit the nail on the head straight away but then she remembered who she was dealing with, "my lifeline. I was recognised by Nantoli. She's spent a lot of time in London. Two political scandals and an affair with a prominent novelist. I was recognised. That's why I have the drawings. If Nantoli keeps quiet I won't sell them on. I need to disappear again. I need these drawings to keep me safe."

"You don't need me to disappear," Sherlock wanted her gone from his flat.

"With your brother running the country?"

"My brother thinks you're dead," Sherlock had seen to that himself.

"But for how long?" Irene asked.

Sherlock was bored. Irene was toying with him there was more to the drawings, "I won't tell him if that is what you are worried about."

"There's something else," Harriet stated. Sherlock looked at Harriet sharply, how had she figured that out?

"Oh, I can see why you keep her around," Irene circled Sherlock earning a threatening glare from Harriet.

"I'm not stupid," Harriet interjected. Irene smiled. It was a smile that was beginning to get on Harriet's nerves. Sherlock sat down in his chair rubbing his thumb against the side of his index finger in thought but the truth of the matter was the need to put distance between himself and Irene. Something else. He mulled it over. "Another designer," Harriet piped up having looked at the stunning designs again. The lace dress, requiring very little lace fabric, would cost up to four thousand pounds alone. There must be thousands of pounds worth of designs sitting on the table.

Sherlock was on his feet, pacing, "Another designer," he marched towards Harriet, kissed her swiftly on the lips and returned to his pacing, He felt a mixture of pride that it was his significant other (not girlfriend) that had figured it out with a hint of annoyance that he'd not been able to show off his brilliance. Of course, it all made sense now, "Nantoli. Designs. Expensive. Oh this is good. You were threatened. Someone found out about your arrangement with Nantoli. Another designer. You've returned to London. Safety. Except it isn't. Whoever is after you followed you here. If those designs fall into anyone's hands but Nantoli it would cost thousands and a reputation. Oh, this is brilliant!" Sherlock clapped his hands together. He needed to search his hard drive mind for his next move.

With the consultant detectives attention otherwise grabbed Harriet was left with Irene for company. "So you were in Milan?" Harriet tried to be polite and as they waited for Sherlock to return to their world and John to join them.

John could hear voices as he returned to Baker Street. Having Harriet contact him made him worry. He left Stamford at the bar and returned home. He hadn't been prepared to come face to face with Irene Adler. "Ah Doctor Watson. I enjoyed your blog about the diamond in the rough."

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter has given me so much trouble, every time I sat down to tweak it (Sherlock and Harriet having dinner) I'd write more. I'm still not entirely happy with it but I have a closing ceremony party to go to and can't face looking at it any longer. Anyways, enjoy Irene's appearance. Thanks to everyone for reading, alerting and reviewing! <strong>


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

'_**The only abnormality is the incapacity to love'**__**  
><strong>_**Anais Nin**

"You aren't dead. Why aren't you dead?" John demanded immediately. "Sherlock why isn't she dead?" He momentarily forgot the white lie he'd told Sherlock after his talk with Mycroft.

"He saved my life in Karachi," Irene stepped close to Sherlock and straightened the lapels of his jacket. Harriet frowned at the scene but remained quiet. She was going to be the bigger person- or so she kept telling herself.

"Mycroft told me you were dead," John continued, "for crying out loud. I told Sherlock you were on a witness protection programme in America. Do you know how hard it was to lie to him?"

"You didn't fool me," Sherlock interrupted.

"Only because you knew otherwise, you should have told me," John rounded on his friend. It hurt that Sherlock hadn't trusted him with this information; it wasn't like he was going to tell anyone. "Does Mycroft know you are alive?" John inquired of Irene. Harriet's head was beginning to hurt as she began to understand just how much thinking Sherlock did. The full story of Irene Adler was still a mystery to her but slowly she was piecing it all together. She wasn't surprised to hear that Mycroft was involved somehow.

As things turned out Mycroft was still unaware of Irene being alive, at least for now. Sherlock didn't deem it important news for his brother to know what was more important was the woman's statement that she had information. This song and dance over designers and their designs was not the real issue. Irene Adler had information and she was toying with them causing trouble.

"There's still something else you aren't telling us. These designers are child's play for you," Sherlock whipped round with a scrutinising glare at Irene who smiled.

"You help me and I'll tell you," with that Sherlock shrugged on his coat and scarf, collar turned up, with instructions to Irene to get a cab. Her parting gesture had been a kiss on the cheek for the consulting detective much to the annoyance of Harriet.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John was glad to hear Harriet challenging him before he fled out the door in pursuit of a distraction because if she didn't then he would.

"That was exactly what it looked like," Sherlock's tone of voice implied stupidity on the questioners part. It riled Harriet up further.

"That looked like you and that woman being a little too familiar." She was seething.

Sherlock didn't have time for conversation. Irene had presented him with a case. "Miss Alder was. I was not. Use your eyes and not your mind. See what is actually going on and not what you want to see," Sherlock reprimanded the jealous Harriet. She glared at the consultant detective. Harriet was defeated. There was very little she could do to persuade Sherlock not to take the case her only option was trust him but that didn't stop her from finding out every possible detail, "Where are you going?"

"To get Miss Adler and her designs out of the country it's for the best, don't you agree?" Sherlock disappeared out the door giving Harriet a swift kiss to placate the irate young woman. Sherlock's sole reason for helping Irene was the information. It was far too tempting for his unoccupied mind. The designs he couldn't care less for.

"Yes, yes fine. I'll just go to bed shall I?" she asked aloud for only John to hear. Aware of what was coming John couldn't help but curse his friend for abandoning him. "I don't bloody believe him," Harriet fumed, "And that woman. Who does she think she is? Errrgh." Harriet crossed her arms and glared at Sherlock's chair that the woman had occupied. She continued to rant to herself.

"Here, wine," John had been quick in pouring two large glasses of white wine for the left behind pair. He was only too aware that he'd been left behind to explain to Harriet, a job that in Sherlock's eyes wasn't worth his time.

She took a large swig from the glass, "nothing stronger?"

John smiled, "quite something isn't she?" He was referring to the woman.

"Who is she?" Harriet had yet to receive a satisfactory answer. John filled Harriet in on who Irene Adler really was right up until her supposed death. How she survived was a story for Sherlock to tell.

There was a lot for Harriet to take in with regards to the woman. What bothered her most was the way Sherlock was drawn to her. From what John said this was nothing new. She was a challenge for him. An insecure part of Harriet wondered if she was challenging enough. What happened when Moriarty disappeared? She knew she was being stupid. John, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade and even Sargent Donavan had all informed her of the consultant detective's lack of relationships. Even Sherlock himself declared that he was married to his work. Harriet was the mistress but it didn't make her any less important in his life.

"He can be such an arse at times," Harriet still couldn't get over what was really bothering her; Sherlock disappearing into the night with that woman. Harriet had faith enough to trust him but the woman, if she was in league with Moriarty then as far as Harriet was concerned she went on the list of people not to trust.

John noted Harriet's despair and felt the need to make her smile, "Just at times?"

Sherlock and Irene were sat in the back of a taxi. The former said nothing as the latter's attempts at conversation was ignored. Eventually she gave in allowing the consultant detective to think but little did she know his thoughts weren't on her pressing situation but on the situation he would be returning to. He may not be schooled in all things socially acceptable in a relationship but one thing he was fairly certain on was running off with another woman when things were getting intimate with the first was unacceptable even if that other woman posed such a delightfully entertaining distraction.

"These designs," Irene waited for acknowledgement. There was none. Regardless she continued, "These designs will remain in my possession. I won't be returning them or handing them to anyone else." Still no answer. She leaned closer so her lips almost brushed his ear and in her most sultry voice she spoke carefully, "have dinner with me." Still nothing. She gave in and sat back content with watching him for the time being.

Harriet. The woman had plagued his mind again. Flowers. He could take those back as an apology. No. That wouldn't do. He absently drummed his fingers on his knee as he analysed the situation, perhaps John would take pity and help him. Reluctantly Sherlock dragged his thoughts back to the woman that had once been so intriguing to him.

"She's in love with you," Irene went for another tactic to bring the consultant detective back to life. It was clear to her that she was no longer the most interesting woman in Sherlock's life. At the mention of the L word he'd frozen. Love was what ordinary people felt.

Sherlock was more than aware of Harriet's feelings towards him and with this in mind he chose his reply carefully not wanting to give anything away that could be used against him. "Love is a dangerous disadvantage, I've told you that before. I am not in love. It is a name for chemical reactions within our bodies."

"I think," Irene leaned closer. There was a dangerous edge to her actions that had Sherlock on his guard. "You are protesting too much," the woman smirked.

The woman was alluding to something. Oh, sentiment. Sherlock was disgusted and decided to ignore her. He was not in love with Harriet. She wasn't dull and he enjoyed her company much like he did John's except she wasn't like John. It wasn't love; Sherlock wasn't capable of feeling such a thing.

The taxi pulled up at its destination bringing Sherlock back to life. He paid the driver and marched towards a pub on the corner of the street. A crooked white building whose paintwork had seen better days. It was a well-known fact that it was regularly frequented by all sorts of unsavoury characters. Sherlock found it an idle place to find the people he needed when the homeless network wasn't suitable. As they crossed the threshold a silence fell on the pub at the sight of the pair. For once it wasn't Sherlock that had bought silence upon a room but Irene. Her suave dress sense and impeccable looks were enough to grab the attention of the rough around the edges male population of the pub. "Ah, Sherlock, what can I do for you?" the landlord behind the bar greeted loudly. The customers returned to their business although a few stole lecherous glances at Irene.

"I'm looking for Pomelo," he spoke loudly and clearly for the pub to hear even though he'd already located Pomelo in the crowd.

"Aye and what would you want with him?" a voice with a thick accent spoke from the far end of the bar. Sherlock stepped forward to shake the man's hand knowing exactly who he was. There had been many occasion where they had exchanged exotic items for money and favours on Sherlock's part. "Sherlock," the man grinned, "it's been a while."

"It has," Sherlock replied, "I'm calling in a favour."

Sherlock was about to explain when Irene interrupted, "Irene Adler." He was irritated by the interruption and couldn't see how an introduction was helping matters. He scanned his eyes around the pub. His attention grabbed by a couple of young men one in a tracksuit and the other in a hooded top and a battered pair of jeans entering the pub. They took a seat in the window. Not friends, Sherlock deduced, work together. Paid a large sum up front judging by the expensive pair of trainers on the feet of the man in the tracksuit.

"There are some drawings that need to leave the country without anyone knowing," Sherlock bought Pomelo a pint to soften him up although clearly he'd had one too many already. The two men observing them from afar weren't his priority any longer. For the next ten minutes Sherlock settled things with Pomelo with continued interruptions from the woman until she left to use the grotty bathroom at the back of the pub.

With a threat from Irene regarding the designs they were on their way. As they stepped out onto the cold dark street the two young men followed them out. It could all be a coincidence. They stopped for a quick pint on their way home and were now heading home. Then again when was anything ever a coincidence around Sherlock.

Sherlock and Irene walked out to the main road where they could get a taxi with ease. Irene expressed a worry about the man's competence in delivering the drawings to their destination. Sherlock chose not to answer her pointless worrying and instead focussed on the footsteps of the men following them down the street. They weren't conversing. Their focus was elsewhere. It was hardly a difficult deduction for the consultant detective. "We're being followed."

It annoyed Harriet that Sherlock was off gallivanting with that woman. She couldn't sleep and tossed from one side to the other until finally she flung back the covers in exasperation. With a book she settled into Sherlock's chair in one of his dressing gowns to wait for them to return or sleep to arrive. She considered texting him but didn't want to give Irene the satisfaction of knowing that she was checking up on Sherlock should the woman see the text.

Harriet was awoken by a thud. In her startled state it took a few seconds to realise where she was, asleep in Sherlock's chair. A glance at the clock told her it was the early hours of the morning. With a groan she reached for the book that was now lying on the floor and got to her feet. The ache in her neck was making the bed and giving up her wait for Sherlock more than a little tempting despite her concern for him, especially with the woman having a link to Moriarty. Their evening had finally started to go right when she showed up. Well, he had made his bed and could lie in it. Harriet wasn't going to wait around for him to come home any longer not when there was a comfortable bed.

Sherlock, with Irene's hand gripped tight in his, followed his feet as they thundered down the footpath dragging the woman with him. She wasn't quick enough. They needed to get away from the pursuers. Going back to Baker Street was out of the question especially with Harriet and John there, although John could handle himself, it left Sherlock with no choice but to lose the tail.

Irene cursed her boots. They weren't made for running. It slowed their pace. Sherlock came to an abrupt stop as two others stepped out from a doorway. Irene slammed into his back not expecting him to stop. It was no use turning back. The footsteps were already too close. A glance behind them confirmed that there was nowhere to go.

"What now?" Irene asked. Already Sherlock's mind was calculating. On his own it would be easy but there was the woman complicating matters and there were four of them. One had recently left juvenile detention judging by the young man's haircut. The man to his right was definitely the brains behind it all. Middle-aged, ex-army now a body guard for a nightclub.

"Give us the designs!" the body guard demanded. He stood with his legs apart and arms crossed over his muscled chest. To anyone but Sherlock it would be more than a little intimidating.

Irene turned to face the imposing man and looked him up and down, "I don't have them. Neither will you, your employer or Nantoli get your hands on them."

"You're lying. Hand 'em over," the youth in the tracksuit was only too eager to be involved.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the offending youth, "No…"

Irene smirked and threw her bag at one of the men knowing exactly where the designs were, "Check it." The contents of the suave leather bag were emptied onto the concrete floor. A small bottle of perfume smashed filling the air with a vanilla-like scent.

"They aren't here," the man with the bag looked across at the other two.

The body guard commanded his men "search them." His word was clearly law. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The men who'd followed them into the pub were clearly not the most observant on the planet there was nowhere for the designs to be hidden. With his arms held out Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was best to get it over with. He caught Irene's eye. She smiled smugly, lifted her foot up and stamped on the foot of the man searching her. Anticipating her move Sherlock swung his arm against the rib cage of the hoody from the pub that moved to within striking distance in an attempt to carry out the search. The hoody doubled over gripping his side muttering profanities.

Sherlock had to side step a well-aimed punch. His next dodge hadn't been quite so lucky. The hoody regained his senses and delivered a swift blow with his elbow against Sherlock's chest. The aim had been his throat. It knocked him back. His head bashed against the footpath. With a groan Sherlock shut his eyes.

As Sherlock lay flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, he could hear the distinct sound of Irene's heels on the footpath fading into the distant out onto the main road. He struggled onto his knees and took deep breaths. It would be no use chasing after her by now she would be in a taxi. Not that it mattered when the designs were on their way to Brazil.

"The designs?" the body guard prompted.

Sherlock glared daggers at the body guard, "Gone." Lying on the floor was a disadvantage that Sherlock needed to put a stop to. The body guard sent two of his men off in pursuit of Irene who was now long gone. It put Sherlock on a fairly even playing field. He'd be able to get out of this one easily once he got to his feet.

As day broke Sherlock arrived at Baker Street his head hurt and his chest ached from the blow. The collision with the floor had left him with a small gash on his forehead close to his hair line. The blood had dried and felt sticky in his hair. It was all unimportant he was more concerned with the information Irene had failed to give him.

When Irene had gone to the bathroom in the dingy little pub she'd left the designs tucked behind a mirror for Pomelo to retrieve and deliver to Brazil. Irene, using a fake passport, was now heading for continental Europe and from there would make her way to Brazil. Normally it would have been an easy case but Irene could always complicate things. With any luck she would remain hidden with the designs for quite some time.

Sherlock shut the door quietly and didn't bother to turn on a light as he discarded his coat and collapsed into his arm chair. "Sherlock?" he snapped his eyes open at the intrusion. It was Harriet. Half asleep and wearing his favourite dressing gown. She flicked on the table lamp. Sherlock shut his eyes again. "What on earth hap-" her eyes fell on the weary consultant detective, "you're bleeding."

"I'm not," he answered back without his usual snarky comment.

Harriet raised her eyebrows at him, "Yes. You are. Let me see."

He waved her off, "I was bleeding but it's stopped. It's fine. I'm fine."

"At least let me have a look," she brushed his matted hair to the side.

"It's nothing," Sherlock pushed Harriet away and shot to his feet for the isolation of his room.

"Let me look or I'll wake John," Harriet's threat stopped him in his tracks. It was no use hiding away in his room with her sharing it with him anyway. A defeated Sherlock sat back in the chair and with folded arms and a scowl he allowed Harriet to look at the cut on his head.

Harriet touched the area around the wound. Sherlock inhaled sharply, "tell me what happened?" her voice was gentle and caring as she spoke. As Harriet retrieved warm water and a cloth to the clean the blood away Sherlock recounted the night's events. Hearing him speak did nothing to soothe the worry, not even the logical nature in which he tackled the explanation helped. It angered her that Irene had left Sherlock but there was nothing she could do about it and if Harriet was honest she was glad the woman was gone. With the blood cleaned away she could inspect the gash in full. "Sherlock," he hummed in response. He'd long since closed his eyes to keep the water out of them as it dripped from the cloth or so he told himself, it had more to do with the feel of Harriet's fingers on his skin. "This needs stitches."

"I'm not going to a hospital," he protested immediately.

Harriet sighed knowing it was going to be a struggle, "I'll go and wake John. Stay put."

"Jesus Sherlock," John greeted Sherlock in his pyjamas. Sherlock was still sat in his chair with head resting on the back of it as he stared up at the ceiling. The bloody cloth and water on the floor made the scene look a lot worse.

Harriet was still worrying as she hung back allowing John to take a look. "Can you patch him up?"

John had patched Sherlock up on more occasions than he cared to count, "couple of stitches and he'll be back to being an annoying git again."

It was three weeks later when a large white envelope turned up addressed to Harriet. There were no postal stamps on the envelope just her name and the Baker Street address. When she showed it to Sherlock out fear for its contents after the last package she received he opened it for her. He pulled out one of the designs Irene had stolen. "There's writing on the back," Harriet told Sherlock. He flipped it over and read the short paragraph of hand written text.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright so despite having six weeks off I've been useless at updating, sorry guys my hearts just not been in it. Another 4 or 5 chapters and the story will come to an end :( I'm not going to promise regular updates because I've got job applications to do alongside teaching but I should finish it soon. <strong>

**Thanks to Gwilwillith, chaosrachel, raxicoracofallipatorious and newtofanfic for reviewing :D**


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

'_**Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing had happened'**__**  
><strong>_**Winston Churchill**

Sherlock Holmes' mind was driving him round the bend. Irene had been gone three weeks but her words were haunting him. Protesting too much over his supposed love for Harriet. He scoffed at the idea. It was completely and utterly ridiculous and yet he was contemplating the issue for the umpteenth time. Love was what ordinary people felt. It was a chemical reaction. Science. The emotional nonsense was what normal people added to make it more meaningful. Sherlock couldn't deny that he was showing all the signs of being 'in love', scientifically of course. What he wouldn't admit to was Irene's sentimental implication behind that awful four letter word especially when there was nothing to admit. He silently cursed the woman who'd been a distraction once again.

These thoughts had plagued the detective constantly. They were occupying valuable space in his mind palace. He could do nothing about the testosterone, dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, and vasopressin but he could do something about the thought he was giving them. Sherlock picked up a ball of elastic bands from the table and tossed it into the air as he paced the room. What he needed was a case not one of the hundreds of emails about lost dogs or cheating partners that he received but a real murder, preferable a serial one. His only visit to Scotland Yard had been to pick up an arrested Harriet a few days prior and even then Lestrade had nothing for him.

Harriet's arrest had been a distracting afternoon for Sherlock who'd spent most of the morning pacing the length of the living room. "Bored?" John asked. He'd only been home from a shift for twenty minutes.

"What? Oh, yes," he continued to pace, "something like that."

"Working a case?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing, "no. You would know if I was working a case."

"An experiment then?"

"No," Sherlock lowered his voice and continued to pace, "no. No experiment." His thoughts were centred on something entirely different as again he ran through the chemical response his body had been having to Harriet.

"You were muttering about serotonin and oxytocin," John tried to extract more information from his friend.

"Was I?" Sherlock feigned innocence.

"Yes, you were," John insisted.

"No. I wasn't."

It was no use arguing further so John dropped the subject, "Harriet still out?"

"Shopping," Sherlock answered with emphasis on the p's.

John was silent for a moment the only sound in the flat was Sherlock's foot falls as he paced. It was really starting to irritate him, "And you didn't want to join her?"

"Really, John? Shopping?" Sherlock stopped his pacing to make sure John understood how daft his question had been before returning to his pacing once again. Sherlock had been tempted to go with her with Moriarty still out there but had remained at home shopping was dreadfully dull and besides Harriet had taken precautions.

Sherlock paced back and forth as John typed away on his laptop. The blog was beginning to occupy more of his time. Sherlock threw himself down onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh, "you're not going to start shooting things are you?" John was an expert in recognising the stages of boredom in all things Sherlock.

The consultant detective frowned, "no, Miss Thornton has my gun."

John abandoned his half-finished sentence and gave Sherlock his full attention, "Harriet has you're gun but she's shopping."

"What is it like in your mind? Miss Thornton took my gun for protection. She doesn't think I'll find out. Really you should thank her, without my gun I can't shoot at the wall," Sherlock lifted his arm; his hand shaped like a gun, and shot at the wall where two new holes had appeared four days ago.

"Sherlock you can't just let her walk around with a gun!"

"Its fine," he waved off John's comment.

"No. It's not. People don't walk around with guns," There was no further answer from the consultant detective.

It took a few trips out with John to the supermarket and a day out with Mrs Hudson following her dinner with Sherlock before Harriet felt more comfortable getting out and about. Sherlock had been an annoying arse for a good part of a week after Irene's visit. Not knowing the information Irene had thrown him into a monumental sulk. It was Sherlock's sulk that gave Harriet a new found determination to head out for a day of shopping after having just about enough of him.

Harriet paused before leaving the flat, was this really a wise idea? It was her first time out solely on her own. What if, without Sherlock or John around, something happened? What if Moriarty happened? How would she protect herself? Her eyes fell to the coffee table and Sherlock's gun. She couldn't take it, could she? Peace of mind was what she needed and without so much of a second thought she placed it securely in the bottom of her bag before Sherlock could get out the shower and luckily John was covering holidays at a surgery till lunchtime.

Harriet had a hard time walking down the busy London Streets. It felt as if every pair of eyes was her all judging her for carrying a gun in her bag. It was still hidden safely in her bag. She made her first destination a cash machine. The sums in her head told her she was coming to the end of her savings but would have enough to add a few more items to her wardrobe. She would have to find a job if Sherlock let her. Before drawing money out she checked her balance.

**Available Balance**

**£50 965**

"That's not right," she muttered in disbelief aware that a queue was forming behind her. Where had she got fifty thousand pounds from? The only place to find answers was to go into the bank and speak to an advisor.

"It appears the money was deposited by an M Holmes," she was informed. Harriet thanked the advisor for his time and left the bank in a daze. She had money, more than she'd ever had before but it wasn't hers. There was no way she could keep it. Harriet didn't have Mycroft's number to tell him what she thought of his charitable action and Sherlock would tell her to keep it if it would spite his brother. Her only other option was John.

There was no answer. Harriet cursed at her phone in frustration before she recalled that John had locum work at a Doctor's for the morning. As she walked down the busy street Harriet tried to figure out how to get a hold of Mycroft. In the end she turned back towards the bank and demanded they remove the money from the account. This time a less than helpful assistant informed her that they couldn't do that. Disgruntled Harriet left the bank before she was thrown out. Her phone rang from her bag. Finally John was getting back to her. She pulled the phone out. Her fingers grazing over the cold metal of the gun. The phone was swiftly withdrawn and the bag sealed.

"John, thank god. You won't believe what the pain in the arse has done. The older one," she added as an afterthought.

"Miss Thornton, I am not as old as you think," the cold voice sounded amused.

"Shit!" a woman with her small children hurried passed Harriet with a disapproving look. "You're not John."

"I'm not," the voice of Mycroft clarified.

There was no need for pleasantries, "I have a bone to pick with you. What right do you have to put," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "fifty thousand into my account. I don't need it."

"You're bank balance said otherwise unless my brother has recently put a stop to Moriarty letting you go back to educating this country's future?" Mycroft answered.

"You and your brother are far too alike. You both have a dislike for other people's privacy. I'd appreciate it if you kept your nose out of my business from now on," She ranted away.

Mycroft sighed, "Take the money, Miss Thornton, go and buy yourself a nice dress." What a condescending arse. The call ended before Harriet could tell him where to shove his money. Resigning herself to her fate she headed for her favourite high street clothing store. Out of principle the fifty thousand would remain untouched. Perhaps she'd give it to charity.

As Harriet passed along the busy Oxford Street she felt the fifty thousand begin to burn a hole in her pocket. Maybe she wouldn't give it all to charity. Mycroft did say to buy a nice dress. Her eye was caught by a stunning navy dress with a white peter pan collar in the window of a shop that was usually out of her price range. Normally she would walk past but now she could afford it and just to spite Mycroft she went inside to try it on.

"Bored. Bored! BORED!" Sherlock stomped up the stairs into 221B having been to see if Mrs Hudson could cure his boredom. She'd made him a cup of tea and given him a biscuit whilst he completed the crossword in her tabloid newspaper but that hadn't lasted long. John focussed his attention on his laptop pretending that he hadn't heard Sherlock's loud return. "Didn't you hear me?" Sherlock inquired.

John sighed and set his laptop aside, "the whole street heard you. Try to keep the noise down I could do without any more complaints."

"I don't care what the neighbours think," Sherlock countered.

"The police don't need any more complaints either," John tried to reason. Sherlock didn't care for the police complaints Lestrade always sorted them. "Harriet didn't want you to go did she?" this realisation hadn't hit John until Sherlock had gone down stairs to bother their land lady mid-afternoon.

"Go where?" Sherlock looked across at John from his chair.

John voiced his answer, "Shopping. I don't blame her. You could have followed her surely it would have occupied your time? Cured the boredom?"

"Please, I would have been more bored," Sherlock answered.

John shook his head, "No, that's not it. You're worried about her. You are so on edge that the rest of us are suffering but you listened to her when she told you not to go along and," John smiled enjoying the fact his friend was showing his human side, "you're respecting her wishes."

"Go back to your blog," Sherlock snapped.

"Alright, alright. Keep your hair on. I'm sure Harriet will be back soon, it's gone six," John picked his laptop up again.

Harriet rested her bag on the counter whilst the assistant wrapped her new dress in tissue paper, something that didn't happen in the usual high street chains. She was rummaging around for her purse that had fallen to the bottom of the bag. "Oh god!" the assistant squealed. "You have a gun!" Harriet looked up in panic.

"No, no," it's not real, honest," she tried to hide the gun at the bottom of the bag. The people around her were panicking and leaving the shop. "I wasn't going to use it," Harriet's face had flushed a dark shade of red. It was too late the assistant had already fled out the shop with her phone. Shit, Harriet panicked and tried to find her own phone in her bag to call Sherlock but didn't get chance to place the call. Oxford Road being a busy London shopping area was crawling with security and police.

Sherlock's phone rang from his pocket. "Excellent!" he exclaimed as Lestrade's name appeared on the screen.

For Greg Lestrade it had been a long and trying day. Traffic had been bad making him late to work, his morning had been taken up by a meeting on cutting costs and his afternoon filled with paperwork. "You'll never believe whose downstairs in the cells," Sargent Donavan poked her head around Lestrade's office door.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade really hoped not. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Try again," Donavan answered.

Lestrade had to think carefully. It was nearly always Sherlock, "John?" That had happened once before involving graffiti.

"The freaks girlfriend," Donavan announced.

"Really?" Lestrade was already on his feet with his phone in hand. Sherlock would know what was going on. By the time Lestrade had made it down to the cells he'd ended his call with, if he didn't know any better, a rather surprised Sherlock. He instructed an officer whose name he couldn't remember to open the cell door to Harriet's cell. He'd been informed by the officer that she was there for illegal possession of a fire arm. "Harriet," Lestrade greeted with a warm smile at the sight of the tearful woman. Harriet swiped away the tears with the back of her hand as Lestrade sat down next to her, "Sherlock is on his way, what happened?"

Harriet fumbled her way through an explanation. Lestrade listened with a sympathetic ear understanding, from conversations with John, just how hard it was for the young woman to have gone out alone but that was no excuse to carry a gun. It was even more unacceptable that Sherlock had one in the first place. "How could I be so stupid?" she asked.

"Don't worry. I'm owed some favours. Come on we'll go up to my office and wait for Sherlock and John. There'll be no charges," Lestrade offered Harriet another reassuring smile and led her from the cold cell up to his office. He left her there with Donavan whilst he called in the favours.

"You know it's that freak. If you'd never met him you wouldn't be here," Sargent Donavan didn't like being on babysitting duty.

"Thank you Sally," Sherlock spoke over her shoulder.

"Are you alright Harriet?" John walked passed Sherlock who was eyeing Sargent Donavan with a cold accusing glare.

"Fine," at least she'd calmed her nerves. Donavan bought her a cup of coffee so Harriet focussed on it instead of everyone else.

"You aren't fine. You are-" Sherlock was cut off. Harriet didn't look at him but could feel his eyes on her.

"Alright Sherlock," John said purposefully, "save it for later." The consultant detective huffed and instead turned his attention on Sargent Donavan with a snarky comment about her relationship with Anderson.

"I'm so sorry. I've caused such a mess," Harriet could only look at John. He would understand.

John leant on Lestrade's desk, "its okay."

Harriet rested her head in her hands, "no, it's not okay. What was I doing walking around London with a gun?"

When Lestrade returned they were able to leave. Harriet apologised profusely and John assured Lestrade it wouldn't happen again, "I know it won't. Sherlock isn't getting the gun back," Lestrade answered.

"I'll get another one," Sherlock hadn't moved away from the door since he'd arrived and was already half way down the corridor when he replied leaving everyone behind.

"It's against the law," Lestrade spoke to a now empty room. It was no use arguing against Sherlock who'd probably have another by breakfast the following morning.

It was a quiet taxi ride back to Baker Street for the trio. Harriet was mortified by events, John was giving her the space to think and Sherlock, with his collar turned up, was staring out the window. He didn't speak until they were back at Baker Street, "If you wanted a gun I could get you your own so you don't steal mine."

"I don't want a gun. God what was I thinking," she draped her coat over the back of John's chair.

"I think it's evident enough that you weren't," Sherlock droned.

Harriet ignored his jibe, "I wouldn't have gone into that shop if that arrogant git hadn't put fifty thousand in my account."

"It's your fault. You took the gun," Sherlock informed Harriet.

John interrupted the pair, "fifty thousand, we are talking pounds right?"

"Mycroft," Harriet clarified.

"Wrong! I did it. Mycroft was acting on my wishes," Sherlock moved closer to Harriet, "I didn't want to add to your worries." It wasn't what John had expected him to say. Sherlock had been uncharacteristically un-Sherlock-like in considering Harriet's worries. It was one of the few times that Sherlock let others know that he was something more than a high functioning sociopath.

"You are unbelievable," Harriet pushed him away and stomped into the bedroom not knowing how to deal with his revelation.

"Nice one Sherlock," John went to put the kettle on.

Harriet leant against the back of the bedroom door after one hell of an afternoon. It had been embarrassing to say the least. She was glad that Lestrade was keeping the gun, who on earth keeps a gun in their living room anyway? The shock of the afternoon was beginning to wear away as a panic crept in. It could have meant the end of her teaching career or jail.

Living with Sherlock was getting out of hand what with Irene Adler's visit and Harriet's trip to the police station not to mention the fifty thousand now sitting in her bank account. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more the large white envelope from containing one of the designs that Irene had stolen arrived. It was Sherlock who'd opened it. "There's writing on the back," Harriet told Sherlock. He flipped it over and read the short paragraph of hand written text.

_Cash isn't so secure at Pentonville. _

_Tell Sherlock I'm sorry about dinner. _

_Irene x_

"Can I see?" Harriet asked. She looked at the design first. There was no denying that it was stunning but it was the writing that was now the most prominent feature. The whole message bothered Harriet. Cash could only mean Mike Cash the man working for Moriarty, the man who abducted her over back in the summer. She dropped the design onto the table no longer finding it stunning.

"Cash is still in Pentonville and will be for some time," John had taken up the design.

Harriet had lapsed into a lassitude. She was haunted by memories of the abduction, the trial and Moriarty. Her immediate need was comfort as she chewed nervously on her thumb nail. Sherlock threw out his usual enthusiasm at a case and instead focussed on the woman that was so valuable to him. Sherlock felt anger swell inside him as he wrapped his arms around the quiet Harriet. This was what Irene had been referring to. The information he had been so eager to discover wasn't so fantastic any more. For Irene to have that information she would have had to have been in contact with Moriarty.

"Just tell me everything is okay," Harriet pleaded quietly as he head rested on his chest, "please."

Sherlock frowned, to say such a thing would be an out and out lie and yet a part of him was compelled to offer up the empty words. "Everything is okay," he repeated slightly unsure of why he was being so sentimental in his behaviour

There was very little Sherlock could do about Cash having exhausted his usual informants. A begrudging text to Mycroft had confirmed that he was still locked away. It was now a waiting game to see if what Irene said was true. Sherlock refused to let Harriet go anywhere alone again not that she minded when Cash had knocked her confidence again. Sleep had been her biggest challenge. Sherlock stepped up to the mark again and spent more time in his bed than he ever head before as he held a sleeping Harriet in his arms. The quiet of the room was good for his thinking but more importantly Harriet was comforted. He was back to mulling over his no longer deniable biological love for Harriet.

A case surfaced a few days after Irene's design arrived. One of Britain's top bankers had gone missing which once again thrust Sherlock and John into the headlines.

* * *

><p><strong>Aaand cue Reichenbach. Most of this chapter was going to be a one-shot and I was going to do a series of them for moments at Baker Street between Harriet and the rest but I put it in the main story instead. Thanks for reading, alerting, favouriting and what not. <strong>

**LunaAnatolia- I'd love to do a sequel but for now I'm going to finish this one and then see.**

**Way Worse Than Scottish- I don't want to end it, I'm emotionally invested too.**

**Gwilwillith- Thank you!**


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

'_**Nobody, as long as he moves about among the chaotic currents of life, is without trouble'**__**  
><strong>_**Carl Jung**

A flailing arm whacked Sherlock's side as he lay awake in bed. It wasn't the first time. Harriet had tossed and turned since Cash's name had been bought up in Irene's note. It bothered her more than she let on. She let out an unintelligible noise in her sleep. Sherlock sighed and turned over to face the tormented young woman.

"Harriet," his familiarly clear and crisp voice instantly calmed her panic.

"Sorry," she mumbled sleepily aware that her disturbed sleep irritated the consultant detective.

There were no words from the consultant detective instead he shifted closer to Harriet so he could place a kiss on her forehead. It was moments like these that made everything worth it to Harriet. She could put up with his sulks, showing off and scathing comments just to be privilege to such rare moments but not tonight. She shoved Sherlock away; he was genuinely surprised by the action. On the past two nights Harriet had taken comfort in the action and relaxed but not now. Before Sherlock could comprehend what had sparked this change she'd flung back the covers exposing the cold night air and all but marched out of the bedroom. Curiously Sherlock followed. The lights were off in the living room the only light came from the dying embers of the fire. Sherlock stood in the entrance to the kitchen watching Harriet shuffle through a disorganised pile of bills, newspapers and photographs until finally she found what she was looking for. The design.

For a moment she stared at the perfect design. A wonderful winter coat. She would give an arm and a leg to have a coat like that or even to lay eyes upon the design but having had that privilege it was now the last thing she wanted. She read the words on the back one more time and with a purposeful rip the design was torn into pieces. Sherlock stepped into the room, "Harriet," he steadied her trembling hands. She hastily back away towards the fire. With the shredded paper in one hand she used the other to pull away the fireguard. Without a second thought the pieces were thrown onto the dying embers where they shrivelled in the heat. It wasn't until the last of the design had burned that Harriet finally stepped away from the fireplace after replacing the fire guard.

She refused to look at Sherlock, "I'm going back to bed," she announced.

"_Not_ so fast," Sherlock's hand clasped around her wrist as she stepped past him. She tried to wriggle her wrist free from his cold hand. With a sigh she gave in. "That was evidence."

"Do you have to be so bloody single-minded?" Sherlock didn't light to tell that she was frowning, "But more to the point since when did you care about evidence. That was a constant reminder and now it's not. Problem solved."

Sherlock moved his hand from her wrist up to her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You just burnt a design worth thousands," he stated in amusement.

Harriet bit her lip at how incredulous the situation was, "I did."

"Best not tell John," Sherlock mused. This time Harriet smiled. She cast a final glance at the embers in the fire and headed back to bed with Sherlock's hand resting reassuringly on the small of her back.

With his arm's holding Harriet to his chest Sherlock drifted into dangerous territory with his thoughts. He felt her physically relax as she drifted back to sleep, "What have you done to me?" he verbalised his thoughts to a sleeping Harriet. Her even breathing was his only response.

The kidnap of a London banker bought a gaggle of press to the doors of Baker Street. Sherlock even made the six o'clock news. "I don't wear ties," Sherlock had grumbled after returning from one of Lestrade's post case press conferences with yet another gift from a thankful client.

"So you've said," Harriet had gone past the point of humouring him. "I bet you had a wonderful journey back," she turned to John.

"You have no idea," Harriet laughed at John's comment; she had a fairly good idea.

Sherlock had no time to moan or grumble about being bored no sooner had the kidnapped banker been reunited with his family when he was offered another tantalisingly enticing case involving Interpol's most wanted.

Harriet watched the press conference on the television with Mrs Hudson following yet another solved case. Lestrade was speaking to the press as Sherlock and John stood to the side. John had discarded his knitted jumpers for a shirt and suit jacket to make the effort. Sherlock had turned his collar up making no secret of his disdain for such an event. It amused Harriet. The news clip of the press conference was cut as Lestrade handed Sherlock a wrapped package.

"Oh he's not going to like that," Mrs Hudson had seen the package too, "I think I might stay downstairs tonight and watch corrie. He's all yours dearie."

Harriet sat with Mrs Hudson until the boys returned. "What did you get given?" she couldn't contain her inquisitiveness.

Sherlock plonked something onto her head as he headed up the stairs. Instinctively she reached for the foreign object. "A deerstalker?" she put it back onto her head a little straighter than Sherlock had. "This is much better than the tie pin," she was deliberately teasing him as she followed them up the stairs.

"Give me that," he pulled it from her head messing up her hair.

"Go on then. Put it on," Harriet caught John's eye.

"No," the refusal was immediate.

Harriet took the hat from his hands, "Please." She put the hat back into shape.

"You should know by now that I don't care for pleasantries. The answer is still no."

"Spoil sport," she was going to give in but with another look at the hat and the expression on Sherlock's face she decided to have another crack at it.

Sherlock tried to put her off, "The papers will have a picture of me wearing it."

Harriet went for the only trick in her book that would give her the upper hand. With the hat in one hand her other hand brushed a curl of hair to the side of Sherlock's forehead. "Miss Thornton," he warned. She played innocent and bought her hand down to rest on his cheek, "Harriet," his voice was now dangerously low.

John wasn't used to seeing Sherlock in such an intimate situation. He wasn't sure where to look.

Harriet held Sherlock's challenging gaze. With a lingering kiss she slipped the hat onto his head. "Mrs Hudson!" she stepped away with an impish grin, "You need to come and see this!" she yelled down the stairs.

John was laughing; it felt good after the stress of the press conference, "Don't. Say. Anything," Sherlock ground out.

The following morning the picture from the press conference made the newspaper headlines. John was reading one of the papers on the sofa as Sherlock flounced around the living room clutching another. "Boffin! Boffin Sherlock Holmes," Harriet smiled into her coffee when he threw down the newspaper in front of John.

"Everybody gets one," John looked up at his friend.

"One what?" Sherlock asked with genuine interest.

"Tabloid nickname. Sue Bo, Nasty Nick, shouldn't worry I'll probably get one soon," especially with the rate they were solving casing. With each new one John and Sherlock were getting thrust further into the lime light.

"Page five, column six, first sentence," Sherlock stalked towards the fireplace and picked up the hat, "why is it always the hat photograph?" he punched the hat.

"Hey," Harriet hastily set down her half-drunk coffee, "I like the hat."

"Bachelor. Bachelor John Watson," What the hell are they implying?" There was a hint of disbelief in John's voice. He'd had girlfriends before.

Sherlock ignored him, "what is it? Is it a cap? Why's it got two fronts?"

Harriet groaned, "Right. I'll leave you to it," she drained her coffee cup, plonked it in the sink and headed downstairs to see Mrs Hudson. Neither of the two men acknowledged her leaving. Harriet knocked on Mrs Hudson's door as she opened it, "Morning Mrs Hudson. Have you seen the papers?"

"Oh yes. Gets about a bit our Sherlock," Mrs Hudson had been clearing away her breakfast dishes. She abandoned the job and sat with Harriet at the small kitchen table.

Harriet took a biscuit from the tin on the table, "he's complaining about the hat photograph and John isn't too keen on being known as a bachelor."

"Oh I do worry for him," Mrs Hudson sighed, "and John too. He shouldn't worry though, one day he'll find someone."

"How's your hip?" Harriet asked.

"Confirmed bachelor!" John read the article further as Sherlock continued to ramble on about the deerstalker hat. They had to be more careful. He voiced this to Sherlock who flung the hat towards him with a comment about ear flaps.

"What do you mean more careful?"

"I mean this isn't a deerstalker. It's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean you're not exactly a private detective anymore. You're this far from famous, "John gestured with his fingers hoping to get the point across to Sherlock.

"Oh, it'll pass," Sherlock brushed the comment off as he sat down in his chair with his hands pressed together.

John hadn't got the point across. Sherlock needed to be taking it more seriously. "It better pass. The press will turn Sherlock, they always turn and they'll turn on you."

Sherlock wasn't too bothered what the newspapers were saying. He'd heard worse over the years. Sherlock didn't understand why it would upset John and as for his suggestion about taking a little case that was utter nonsense. A little case was dull. He sighed with irritation, "Miss Thornton. They don't mention her."

John saw his in road, "no and if you keep this up they will get wind of your relationship with her. Harriet has been through enough at least give her the comfort of knowing that she won't be hounded by those vultures."

"A little case," Sherlock scowled.

When Harriet returned she picked up the hat from the table, "Mrs Hudson likes the hat." she stepped behind Sherlock's chair and settled the hat onto his head. He immediately reached up and snatched it off his head. It was tossed against the wall without a second thought. "Where's John?"

"Probably gone to find himself a girlfriend," Sherlock answered.

Harriet smacked him on the arm lightly, "More like he's had enough of you."

Sherlock found himself a little case and put a lot of emphasis on the 'little' with an overly sarcastic comment about one corpse not being exciting enough. Harriet was washing up and John was in the shower allowing Sherlock to designate his time to his 'little' case, a little case involving a hanging mannequin in the living room.

The familiar sound of Sherlock's phone sliced through the air, "It's your phone," John pointed out. It was the third time

"Mmmm, it keeps doing that."

"That's what phones do when you ignore them," Harriet dropped plate onto the draining board.

"Yes. Thank you Miss Thornton for that brilliant insight," the sound of her clattering about the kitchen whilst he was trying to work at his microscope had been grating on him for some time.

"I was going to offer to get it for you but not now," she dropped another plate into the sink with a load clatter to deliberately annoy Sherlock.

John settled down with one of the newspapers having walked around the mannequin in a suit without a second thought. "So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?"

"Oh. Henry Fishguard never committed suicide. Bow Street runners missed everything."

"Pressing case is it?" John briefly looked up from his newspaper.

"They're all pressing till their solved."

With the dishes done Harriet cleared away the butter that was left on the kitchen worktop, "do you know that there are toes in the fridge?"

"Yes," Sherlock's reply was monotone. Harriet set the butter down next to them.

Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sargent Donavan had been having a quiet morning until an almost unbelievable call came in. The Tower of London had been broken into. From that point onwards it had been non-stop. En route to the Tower of London Donavan received a call. The Bank of England was hit.

"Where is it now?" Lestrade glanced between the road and Donavan. He still couldn't believe what was going on.

"Pentonville Prison," Sally's words weren't welcome. Sherlock would need a heads up although he would probably already know. Harriet needed to know but right now he had bigger things to worry about.

Sherlock's phone went off again and once again he ignored it, "I'll get it shall I?" John reluctantly got to his feet. He handed the phone to Sherlock who mumbled about being busy, "Sherlock."

"Not now," he tweaked the zoom on the microscope.

"He's back," John's words cut through Sherlock. He didn't need to ask who 'he' was. Moriarty. His thought's flashed towards Harriet. She was doing washing. He took the phone and read the text.

_Come and play._

_Tower Hill._

_Jim Moriarty x._

Harriet met Sherlock and John on the stairs, "going out?"

"Err," John hesitated.

"Sherlock?" she prompted.

"John get a cab," he instructed his friend. He waited until the front door closed before frantically placing his hands on a startled Harriet's shoulders. "Moriarty."

"No. No. No," she shut her eyes, "stay here."

Sherlock sighed, "Stay here. Don't go anywhere. Spend the day with Mrs Hudson. I'll be in touch." Harriet pulled him down to her level by the lapels on his coat.

"If something happens to you or John I will," she sniffed and blinked away a tear, "I will." She didn't know what she would do. Sherlock kissed her on the lips and fled out the door in a whirl of billowing coat and scarf.

Harriet returned to Mrs Hudson's, "Are you alright dear?" the fussy land lady inquired. Harriet nodded numbly, "He and John will be fine," Mrs Hudson was a mind reader.

Lestrade had already seen the security footage before Sherlock and John arrived. Moriarty had used a diamond to break through secure glass to sit on the thrown complete with crown and sceptre. 'Get Sherlock' had been written onto the glass before it was smashed.

Harriet had been frantic for most of the day despite what Sherlock said there had been no news not even a text. She didn't want to put pressure on Sherlock but she was worried, especially where Moriarty was concerned. Harriet decided to text John,

_Everything okay? -HT_

She stood near the window and watched the evening rush hour clutching her phone.

_All fine. Will be late back. Don't worry –John_

It did little to calm Harriet's nerves. She had dinner with Mrs Hudson and returned upstairs for a night of television. It was getting close to midnight and Harriet was struggling to keep her eyes open. The ten o'clock news had been and gone. Moriarty could be seen getting into a police car. What bothered her most was the news that criminals had escaped from Pentonville prison. All day she fretted that Mike Cash could walk right into Baker Street. She was continuously up and down the stairs to check that the door was locked. Every noise made her jump.

Sherlock and John got back after midnight. John was shattered and was going to head straight for bed. Sherlock entered the living room. The television was on quietly, an old eighties movie was playing. Harriet was asleep in his chair. He flicked the television off. She awoke in a panic. Her arms lunged towards Sherlock who was knelt in front of her, "You didn't text. You said you'd be in touch." He looked away as he thought about what to say, "Cash. Did he get out?" The look on Sherlock's face said it all, "No. Just, no," she didn't cry but was coming close to.

"Moriarty is my concern at the moment," Sherlock explained.

"Moriarty is your…" it took a moment for the comment to register, "Moriarty is in jail. He's not going anywhere."

"Moriarty isn't staying in jail," Sherlock got to his feet and took off his coat.

Harriet glared at the consultant detective, "And Cash?"

Sherlock laughed, "Cash is nothing."

"Cash isn't nothing," Harriet ground out, "he could walk through the door at any moment and you think he's nothing. He's more than nothing. I close my eyes at night and I see him.

"Moriarty won't stop," Sherlock's eyes were stormy as he tried to get it through Harriet's head that Cash was the least of their worries. "You need to go to bed, I need to think," Sherlock dismissed the young woman. Harriet complied with his wishes. There was very little she could do to help. She wanted to put up a fight but dealing with Moriarty was a delicate situation. He could do so much damage; she had seen that first hand. Sherlock was right Cash could wait.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and steepled his hands under his chin. What was Moriarty's game? Was it for Cash to be out of Pentonville in the hopes of distracting Sherlock? No. It wasn't exciting enough. Why the Tower of London? The Bank of England? The whole world could see what Moriarty was capable of in three moves. But how? Why? Questions circulated in Sherlock's mind for hours.

Harriet filtered into his thoughts on a frequent basis, it was like clockwork. She was worried about Cash but really he was the least of their concerns. He would either crawl back to Moriarty or drop off the grid completely. Moriarty wouldn't use him again. Of that much Sherlock was certain. It was game. Where was the fun in using the same trick twice? Yet just knowing that Cash was free was enough to make Harriet fearful. Sherlock got to his feet and stood in the doorway to his bedroom. Harriet was asleep and safe.

The papers were calling Moriarty's break-ins the crime of the century. They'd already got wind that Scotland Yard's favourite sleuth, Sherlock Holmes, had been called in. Moriarty was to go on trial at the Old Bailey. Sherlock had been called as a witness for the prosecution.

* * *

><p><strong>Enjoy :D<strong>

**Thanks chaosrachel and Gwilwillith for reviewing. **


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

'_**If there be no enemy there's no fight. If no fight, no victory and if no victory there is no crown'**__**  
><strong>_**Thomas Carlyle**

"Harriet Thornton," a cold familiar voice caused Harriet to drop her shopping on the floor of the kitchen. She looked around for any sign of Sherlock or John. Nothing, "oh I wouldn't waste your time. Not even the dithering old bat downstairs is in."

"What do you want?" she took a deep breath to stay calm. It was a futile effort as her heart raced.

"I've been following you," Harriet reached for the phone in her pocket, "Oh I wouldn't call your precious Sherlock, not yet. You have Moriarty to thank for our little reunion."

"J-just leave me alone," she stuttered as she backed away. If she screamed would someone hear? Mike Cash had been her biggest worry since he'd escaped from Pentonville. He was the only prisoner to do so.

"I want to finish the job I started. I've had months to think about it," Cash grinned maliciously. "But you're in luck. Moriarty wants you alive. Says it'll be extra special for his favourite consultant detective."

Harriet darted for the door. Out, she had to get out. Cash beat her to it. She backed away from him again. He took out a gun. Harriet stood motionless, "please no," she pleaded quietly, "You said he wanted me alive."

"He does. This isn't for you. No. This is for me," Cash's grin never faded, "Moriarty assures me this will be much more fun for his little game with Sherlock." Cash held the gun up, "Tell Sherlock this is a taste of things to come." He stuck the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Harriet yelped in surprise. It turned into a sob as she sunk to her knees. A mixture of relief and shock. She fumbled with her phone and found Sherlock's number in her favourite contacts with bleary eyes. "Sher-Sherlock," she cried his name into the phone.

Sherlock answered Harriet's call as soon as he saw her name on the ID. He had been mid conversation with John as they tracked down a stolen first edition of Charles Darwin's _Origin of Species_ for the Royal Society. The fact that Harriet hadn't text as she usually did set off alarm bells in Sherlock's head.

"Where are you? What happened? Are you hurt?" His questions were hurried as he collected the information he needed.

The sound of Harriet choking back a sob had him waving his hand for John to follow him down the road. He hailed a passing cab as Harriet explained, "Cash is here."

"Get out. Phone Lestrade. On our way," he instructed.

"No. He's dead," she took a deep breath but it did nothing to stop the tears.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked.

"He shot himself," Sherlock closed his eyes and collected his thoughts.

"Stay where you are. I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he was about to hang up but couldn't out of concern, "You are okay?"

"Y-yes, just come home, please" Harriet ended the call. Her shaking hands couldn't hold the phone up anymore.

Sherlock left John paying for cab as he took the stairs two at a time. "Harriet!" he burst through the door took one glance at Cash's dead body lying in a pool of blood before focussing all of his attention on Harriet. She hadn't moved from the floor. Her legs didn't have the strength to stand. Sherlock sunk to the floor and wrapped his arms tightly around her. She burst into a new wave of tears.

"Jesus," John walked through the door, "Does Lestrade know?" Harriet shook her head against the fabric of Sherlock's coat, "right, I'll do that." John walked back out to make the call.

Sherlock pushed Harriet back to check for himself that she wasn't physically harmed. With his thumb he wiped away the fresh tears on her face, "tell me what happened." He wanted the information in a quick precise manner but this was Harriet. He couldn't force it out of her like he did others. Patience was needed.

"I went to get dinner and," she paused to collect herself before meeting Sherlock's eyes, "he was here when I got back. He's been following me. I didn't know. He wasn't going to kill me. Moriarty wants me alive."

Sherlock cut in, "Moriarty?" Of course.

"It was a taste of things to come, I had to tell you that," Harriet tried to remember everything but her mind drifted to the gun and the noise it made. She looked away from Sherlock at Cash's body. It was too much. She hastily struggled to her feet and on wobbly legs made it as far as the kitchen sink before throwing up. It was the vacant expression on Cash's face with his eyes wide open that had done it. Sherlock had been hot on her heels. He pulled back her hair as she vomited.

John wondered into the kitchen pocketing his phone, "Lestrade is busy. Dimmock is on his way." Sherlock groaned but refrained from saying anything as he let Harriet's hair go. He guided her to the chair at his microscope. John fetched her some water. With a shaky hand she took a sip.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock greeted as his landlady fought to get through the police tape. The moronic officer wasn't letting her through but at the sight of Sherlock he had no choice. "Miss Thornton is in your living room."

"What's going on?" she asked after a retreating Sherlock. "Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson made her way through to her flat. John caught her in the doorway giving her a quick explanation. Harriet was giving a statement to DI Dimmock. With the statement over Dimmock returned upstairs to the body leaving Harriet in Mrs Hudson's capable hands. "Oh Harriet dear," she poured the young woman a gin and tonic, "have this, it'll help."

"I close my eyes and I see him. I really thought I was going to die," Harriet calmed down quite a bit. She told herself over and over again that Cash was no longer a worry. It left Moriarty and he was behind bars for now.

It was some time later when the police left. Forensics had been completed although as Sherlock kept pointing out it would lead them nowhere. Harriet was curled up on Mrs Hudson's sofa after another gin. Mrs Hudson was watching a documentary on the African Savannah. Harriet was trying to concentrate to take her mind of things but it was no use. John kept popping in to check on her. She appreciated the effort. He'd keep her up to date on how many police officers Sherlock had managed to offend. Harriet didn't mind that Sherlock was occupied he'd been there when she needed him most and that was all that mattered.

"Come on," Sherlock stood in the doorway blocking out the hallway light.

"Maybe Harriet should stay here tonight," John suggested, "there's still blood everywhere."

"No. No it's fine. Thank you Mrs Hudson, for everything," she smiled to show her appreciation and left with Sherlock's arm around her.

"Have you eaten?" Sherlock asked as they climbed the stairs. Harriet couldn't face food. "Thought not. Take a shower John will make you something." John would have protested but after the evenings events he was happy to help Harriet.

"I'm not hungry but I'll take a shower," Harriet was exhausted and wanted to climb into bed.

"You need to eat," Sherlock pressed.

Harriet smiled in genuine amusement over Sherlock's fussiness, "pot calling kettle black." He snorted.

Once John had convinced Harriet to at least have a piece of toast she had gone to bed. Sherlock didn't need John to tell him to follow her. His legs took him off their own accord. "We need to talk and _don't_ fob me off with an excuse that I need to sleep. Cash was acting on Moriarty's orders, wasn't he?" Harriet was sat on her knees on the bed waiting for him.

"You know he was," was Sherlock's reply.

Harriet waited for him to say something else, he didn't. "So now what?" Harriet asked.

Sherlock took off his blazer jacket and hung it up, "Moriarty's trial is coming up." His voice was strained.

"Sherlock?" Harriet shuffled to the edge of the bed to see him better in the dull light, "everything okay?"

"Yes of course it is why wouldn't it be?" She studied his face. He didn't look okay.

In two quick strides Sherlock was at the bed, he placed his hands on the side of her face and kissed her hard. "Whoa! Just slow down. What's bought this on?" she pulled back.

Sherlock pressed his forehead to Harriet's, "You could have died."

All day Sherlock had gone over and over what could have happened in his mind. Sentiment, his body's chemical response was at fault. Oh there was no use denying it any further that awfully human feeling of being in love. To not have Harriet around would have destroyed him. His mind couldn't comprehend the 'what if?'

"I'm not dead," her tone matched his.

It was beyond Sherlock to say anything else. Harriet shifted her weight and sat back pulling him closer. Her need to be close to him was as great as his was. "I-I," Sherlock had no more words as he tried to regain control of his actions. If the situation had been any different Harriet would have pounced on such an occurrence but her heart went out to him. The difficultly he was having in expressing what was really going through his head.

"Sssssh, it's alright," Harriet's voice was barely above a whisper as she pulled him for another kiss. It was an urgent kiss communicating the words that neither of them dared speak to each other giving Sherlock the proof that she was very much alive.

Sherlock had a lot to think about as he lay in bed with Harriet, her hair ticking his bare chest. Cash's death was significant and Moriarty had orchestrated it. Sherlock didn't want to leave her alone. In the past he would have but something had changed. He didn't want to let her out of his sight. When she'd phoned the worst case scenario had hit him like a tonne of bricks. John was his best friend and kept him on the straight and narrow but Harriet she was so much more.

"Is Harriet okay this morning?" John asked with concern as Sherlock left his bedroom in his dressing gown, shirt and trousers his bare feet echoing off the floor.

"She is sleeping in after the nights activities," Sherlock replied. John suspect that Sherlock was alluding to something other than having a deranged killer shoot himself in the living room. He really didn't need to know that Sherlock had partaken in 'thank-god-I'm-alive-sex' a simple 'she's okay' would have sufficed.

It was the morning of Moriarty's trial and the inhabitants of Baker Street were engrossed in another Moriarty discussion, over the last six weeks there'd been a lot of those, "If Moriarty wanted those prisoners free they'd be out on the streets. Cash was the only one out."

"And he's not a problem anymore," Harriet had accepted the events and was treating them with a cold indifference.

"No, he's not," Sherlock agreed.

Harriet brushed lint off the sleeve of Sherlock's best suit jacket, "behave," she warned him.

"I always behave," he answered with a wry smile. Harriet kissed him and sent him and John on their way. A part of Harriet wanted to go with them to the court room and look Moriarty in the eyes as he was sentenced but John and Sherlock dug their heels in and told her to remain. They'd kept her presence from the press so far but if she was to leave the flat when the press were outside it would attract unwanted attention. John suspected that Mycroft had a lot to do with Harriet remaining out of the papers. Her name had only cropped up once and even then it was in relation to being Mrs Hudson's family a perfectly sound explanation for her presence at Baker Street.

Sherlock and John were whisked away to the Old Bailey in the back of a police car having fought their way through the press on the front door step. The consultant detective had a run in with press, a Kitty Riley, in the men's bathroom. As he left the bathroom Harriet came to mind. She'd told him to behave. For Sherlock that was behaving himself.

There were no delays in getting the trial underway. Moriarty appeared in the docks dressed in a crisp light grey suit chewing on a piece of gum. Every effort had been made by police to ensure he was heavily guarded. As per proceedings Sherlock was called as a prosecution witness. Sherlock picked apart the jury as he stood for the prosecution. The prosecutor was an idiot. He'd had to correct her leading questions on multiple occasions. It was all a farce anyway. Moriarty would walk away. There was more to his game than getting locked up in a high security prison.

Following his display of intellectual prowess Sherlock was thrown out of the court room and spent the remainder of the day sat in a cell waiting for the day to come to a close and for John to come and pick him. The judge hadn't appreciated his effrontery. Time ticked on as he waited. The court would have closed for the day and John was making him wait.

John eventually came to collect him. He stood against the counter with his arms folded, "What did I say? I said don't get clever," it was like scolding a child.

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap. Well?" Sherlock signed for his possessions.

"Well what?" John inquired of his childish friend knowing full well that if he tried he could turn it off like a tap. The day had gone exactly as Sherlock said it would the defence didn't lift a finger.

Harriet pounced on them as soon as they walked through the door, "so?"

"Moriarty will be walking away scot free," Sherlock took off his coat and sat in his chair folding one leg over the other.

"No. That isn't how it works. They'll lock him up," she argued back.

John sighed knowing his friend was right, "the defence mounted no argument."

"So they just sentence him, he's guilty," if only it was that easy.

"They will find him not guilty," Sherlock anticipated, "I don't need to be there to know that." Harriet exchanged a look with John at his choice of words.

"Don't ask," John put the kettle on. He needed a decent cup of tea.

Harriet crossed her arms, "I told you to behave."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John spoke for him, "Sherlock made a mockery of the court room. He's banned."

"It's Moriarty! How can you get yourself banned?" she groused.

"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville. Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in no one knows how or why," John set down a tea pot and cups. He returned to the kitchen to bring Harriet a berry flavoured fruit tea. Sherlock got to his feet and paced. How and why? Questions he'd been asking himself for the last six weeks. "All we know is," John walked back in.

"He ended up in custody," Sherlock finished. Harriet mumbled thanks to John and sipped her tea.

John sat down and breathed deeply, "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Sherlock asked.

"The look," John answered.

"Look," he repeated John's words with a frown.

"You're doing the look again," John had to explain.

"Well I can't see it, can I?" John gestured to the mirror over the fire place, "it's my face," Sherlock was being obtuse.

"Yes and it's doing a thing, you're doing a 'we both know what's going on here face,'" John elaborated.

"Well we do."

Harriet smiled, she liked the look, "You're the only one Sherlock."

"And that's why I find the face so annoying," John's long day in court was taking its toll.

Sherlock explained for the benefit of John and Harriet, "if Moriarty wanted the jewels he'd have them, if he wanted those prisoners free they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's stood in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there."

John thought about it for a moment. "They can't just let him go though, I mean they have him in prison exactly where he should be," Harriet had a blind faith in the justice system.

"Somehow this is part of his scheme. I envy your inferior minds sometimes," Sherlock insulted.

"Careful," Harriet warned him.

The following day John found himself back in court alone. Sherlock was back at home no doubt being a right royal pain in the arse for Harriet. His parting comment had been, "it isn't worth your going. I know the outcome." John had gone regardless just to be sure. The judge had to recommend that the jury find Moriarty guilty with him mounting no defence.

Sherlock was muttering to himself as he sat stretched out on the settee. Harriet may as well have been home alone. She'd seen Sherlock lapse into a catatonic state before. The first time it had happened it unnerved her but now she just accepted it and continued about her business. "James Moriarty stands accused of several accounts of attempted burglary. Crimes of which if he is found guilty will illicit in a very long custodial sentence and yet his legal team have chosen to offer no evidence to support their plea," Sherlock was staring off into space, "you must find him guilty." Sherlock closed his eyes, "guilty."

"Sherlock?" Harriet asked tentatively. His eyes snapped open and looked towards the intrusion of his thoughts. "I'm putting the kettle on, do you want anything."

"I'll wait. We'll have a visitor soon," Harriet acknowledged this and went to get changed expecting the visitor to be Lestrade or Mycroft. Tracksuit bottoms and a jumper belonging to John were far too scruffy. Sherlock closed his eyes and calmly returned to his thinking as she left the room.

John waited little more than five minutes for the court to return to session and even then the jury had taken longer than expected. Despite what Sherlock said the night before John still found himself surprised at the verdict. He phoned Sherlock as soon as he was outside. John received no answer from Sherlock even though he had taken the call. He needed to get back to Baker Street. Moriarty would be coming after the consultant detective and his resident unemployed teacher.

Sherlock got to his feet and put the kettle on, "my offer of a drink not good enough?" Harriet appeared in the kitchen having changed into a pair of black jeans with an aubergine polo neck. Sherlock grunted in response and set about making tea. Harriet was certain this was a first.

"Moriarty will be joining us," Sherlock finally exposed the identity of their visitor.

Harriet froze on the spot before gathering her wits, "you're telling me Mori-bloody-arty is coming for tea and biscuits?"

"Get the biscuits," Sherlock demanded.

Harriet stood her ground, "absolutely not," she returned to the safety of Sherlock's room. She wanted to contact John but her phone wasn't by the bed. Oh just brilliant, she made the bed with more force than was necessary following a search for her phone. Sherlock had taken her phone. Harriet heard Sherlock take up his violin as he waited for Moriarty. She was being ridiculous hiding away. If Sherlock was happy for him to waltz into Baker Street then she was safe for now. The playing stopped. Harriet got to her feet and tentatively opened the door to the bedroom slightly hearing the distinct voice of James Moriarty.

"May I?" Moriarty had taken an apple from the fruit bowl. He sat in Sherlock's chair, "come along Harriet!" he called, "are we not friends?" Harriet opened the door fully on his taunting and stood in the doorway to the living room. Her legs refused to take her any further. She held so much anger and fear towards the man.

Sherlock made tea as Moriarty spoke about Bach, "be honest, you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What? With the verdict," Sherlock handed him his tea.

"With me. Back on the streets," Moriarty looked up at Sherlock after a sideways glance at Harriet, "every fairy-tale needs a good old fashioned villain." The consultant criminal grinned widely, "you need me or you're nothing." He busied himself with drinking the tea, "because we're just alike you and I."

"No," Harriet found a voice, "he's nothing like you."

"Miss Thornton," Sherlock interjected.

"Oh how sweet. Still so formal, Sherlock?" Moriarty took another sip, "She's right, you know. We aren't completely alike. You're boring. You're on the side of the angels."

"Got to the jury of course," Sherlock made Harriet a separate tea with one of her fruit flavoured tea bags. With the amount of tea that John and Sherlock drunk she found she couldn't match them drinking coffee so John had suggested a healthier alternative that she took to immediately. Sherlock walked over and handed her the cup. With his back to Moriarty he could check to make sure she wasn't going to be a liability. He deduced at lightning speed that she was no threat to the situation for the time being. Harriet took the tea and thanked him aware that Moriarty was watching them. Moriarty explained that he got to the jury using the cable network in the rooms.

"Every person has their pressure point," Moriarty looked at Harriet again with a menacing gleam to his eye, "someone they want to protect from harm. Easy peasy."

"So how you going to do it, burn me?" Sherlock steered the conversation aware that Harriet was uncomfortable out of the corner of his eye. She still hadn't left the doorway. It was textbook when faced with a mortal danger. She was ensuring her safety sub-consciously making sure she could get away whilst still satisfying her curiosity.

"Well that's the problem. The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem? I did tell you, but did you listen?" Moriarty was taunting Sherlock. Harriet tried to decipher what Moriarty meant. What was the final problem? Her ordinary mind couldn't keep up.

Sherlock sipped his tea his eyes going to watch Moriarty tapping on his leg. "How hard do you find it, having to say I don't know?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged.

"Oh that's clever, very clever," Moriarty smiled in amusement, "Speaking of clever. Have you told your little friends, your _girlfriend_ yet?"

"Told them what?" Sherlock set his tea down and steepled his hands.

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything except Cash of course. Did you like my little gift Harriet?"

Harriet's mouth ran away with her, "thank you. I've never wanted for anything more in my life." Moriarty laughed.

"I just keep on giving. You received my first?" Harriet had to think for a moment as far as she could recall Moriarty had sent her nothing. "Oh, you don't get it, Sherlock?" he watched the consultant detective. He didn't turn around to address the young woman.

"He means your ex fiancé," it was enough to silence Harriet for now. She kept telling herself that Dan wouldn't get involved with someone like Moriarty and now she had proof that he was as good as her memory of him said he was.

"Yes poor old Dan. Had no idea he was working for a consultant criminal," Moriarty smiled again. "But that's old news. Of you go, Sherlock, explain it for your one true love in the corner," Moriarty smirked. Harriet wanted to slap him. "Prove that you know it."

Sherlock figured out why Moriarty took nothing. He'd been demonstrating that he could have anything and advertised it for the whole world to see. Nothing matched the value of the key that could get Moriarty into anywhere using computer code. "No such thing as a private bank account anymore. Very generous of the Iceman by the way, fifty thousand for the charming Miss Thornton." Harriet felt sick, just how much did the man know? "The man with the key is king and honey you should see me in a crown," Moriarty made no secret of his enjoyment. He continued show off what he was capable of and what Sherlock had helped him to achieve, "I just like to watch them all competing, Daddy loves me the best," he imitated in a higher voice, "aren't ordinary people adorable. Oh you know you've got John and the delightful Harriet. I should get myself a live in one," Moriarty mused, "my own Miss Thornton." He winked at the woman stood in the door way.

Sherlock voiced his thoughts as a way of keeping his cool as Moriarty spoke of Harriet. Moriarty didn't want money or power, what was it all for? "I want to solve the problem," Moriarty sat forward, "our problem. The final problem. It's going to start very soon Sherlock. The fall," he whistled, "but don't be scared falling is just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

"You need to be locked away," Harriet jumped in, furious at the man.

"Oh they tried," he held his hands up.

Harriet scoffed, "not hard enough."

Sherlock got to his feet. He was done with Moriarty, "I've never liked riddles."

Moriarty straightened his suit jacket as he also stood, "learn to." The threat was plain as day, "because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. owe. You."

Moriarty stepped towards Harriet in the doorway, "it's been a pleasure, Miss Thornton," he glanced over to Sherlock and reached for Harriet's hand to kiss the back of it. She snapped it back and slapped him on the face. Her eyes widened in fear. "My love to John," he stepped past her and out the door ignoring the slap.

"Oh god," Harriet turned around and watched him go down the stairs. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Sherlock picked up the apple that Moriarty left. **I O U **was carved into it. He discarded the apple before Harriet could see.

"Was that necessary?" Sherlock pulled Harriet into the room.

She flexed her hand as she looked down at it, "yes, quite satisfying," she smiled. Sherlock hummed in approval.

John rushed up the stairs and into flat. Harriet was sat on the settee with her head in her hands. Sherlock was playing his violin. "Everything okay?" John asked taking in the scene.

"Miss Thornton has quite the hand on her," Sherlock ceased his playing. John raised his eyebrows in question.

"I slapped Moriarty," she confessed.

John had to check he heard that correctly, "you slapped Moriarty?"

"Yes John, that's what she said, do keep up," Sherlock set his violin down.

"Wow," John sat next to a traumatised Harriet, "what did he want?" Sherlock filled John in on events.

* * *

><p><strong>Thought I'd get this up before rehearsals tonight, have a good weekend!<strong>

**Gwilwillith- Thanks!**

**newtofanfic- Thanks for pointing my awful spelling mistake out shame word didn't find it for me, I proof read but you can't win them all. Hopefully this chapter answers your question about the fiance. Sherlock had no proof that the fiance was working for Moriarty and everyone's favourite consultant criminal just proved it. **


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

'_**It is generally much more shameful to lose a good reputation than never to have acquired it'**_

**Pliny the Elder**

The following two months saw Sherlock and, with very little say in the matter, John propelled further into the headlines. People were flocking to Sherlock from all over for him to solve their problems. His email inbox was overrun by petty requests for him to find a child's missing cat or a paranoid housewife whose husband was truly having an affair, Sherlock only needed to read the email to know that. Lestrade and a few other officers would entice him along to crime scenes which kept the consultant detective out of mischief for the most part although he'd still come home on occasions sporting a black eye or minus a shoe.

Harriet was getting dressed. The jeans she wanted were still sitting in a paper bag in the living room. It was the second pair in as many weeks that she'd had to buy after Sherlock experimented on the first. She needed them to get dressed. Harriet poked her head from Sherlock's bedroom, "Sherlock? Where's John?"

"In the shower. I doubt it'll be for much longer after you've used all the hot water!" he called back still disgruntled that he'd had to have a cold shower.

"Good," Harriet said more to herself ignoring his jibe about the water. She was only in her underwear as she darted from Sherlock's room to retrieve her jeans. The simple answer would have been to ask Sherlock to get them but with Sherlock it wouldn't have been more effort than it was worth.

Moriarty had been quiet since his visit but they all knew the fall was coming. He was the centre of their discussion and the first thought on their minds when a phone rang. "Sherlock leave the case for the police," John tried to reason following one such call.

The consultant detective wasn't listening to his friend, "Oh please," there was the eye roll, "I can solve it in half the time."

John sighed in exasperation, "Yes and that's exactly my point. The papers will love that."

Sherlock was already into his coat, "we're going."

"Well I'm staying here," John dug his heels in and remained sat on the settee.

Sherlock spun his heel affronted by his friend's stubbornness. He returned moments later carrying Harriet's coat, "what are you doing with that?" she asked slightly unnerved by his actions.

"I need an assistant, John is being childish," he threw the coat in her direction. She caught it but set it down again.

The army doctor opened his mouth to protest but Harriet beat him to it, "I said I wouldn't go on any cases and John has a prior arrangement."

"No he doesn't. That isn't his date shirt," Sherlock countered.

"We're not going on a date are we, John?" Harriet winked when Sherlock wasn't looking.

"No, just lunch?" John hadn't meant for it to sound like a question. Sherlock narrowed his eyes seeing through the lie.

"Yep," Harriet confirmed, "You're welcome to join us. I'm sure the police will manage just fine without you."

With an indignant huff Sherlock was out the door, "the two of you would slow me down."

John sighed and got up to follow his friend, "rain check on lunch? Someone has to keep him out of trouble."

Harriet rolled her eyes, "the two of you attract trouble like moth to a flame."

The following day Sherlock was complaining about being bored. He and John had solved the case for the police and appeared in another headline. "Where is it?" Sherlock demanded as he stepped into Harriet's personal space.

"Where's what?" she was confused.

"My experiment. I left it in the sink," he pointed to the kitchen.

"Oh," Harriet took a deep breath preparing for the inevitable, "whatever it was it was growing mould. I was cooking dinner. Have you ever heard of a health hazard?"

"Don't. Throw. My. Experiments. Out!" he snarled.

"It can't be that important, you didn't even notice it was missing until today," Harriet knew that she'd said the wrong thing as the words left her mouth. Sherlock straightened himself to his full height and following a stony glower at Harriet he walked away into his room letting the door bang shut.

"John we're going out for lunch," she picked up her bag and coat making a hasty retreat.

"Is it that bad?" he asked with an entertained smile.

Harriet shrugged, "he'll get over it, so, lunch?" John loved his flat mate but sometimes a break from him was just what the doctor ordered. John and Harriet didn't venture far for lunch, two streets over there was a reasonably priced bistro. They were discussing Sherlock. "John can I ask you something?" Harriet asked without waiting for his answer, "this whole Moriarty thing, what do you think will happen?"

The ex-army doctor shook his head slightly, "I honestly don't know. Moriarty is unpredictable."

"Do you think Sherlock has a chance to beat him at his own game?"

John didn't want to doubt his friend's abilities but Moriarty was different. He regarded Harriet as he thought about his answer. John lacked Sherlock's deductive abilities but what he had was better. He could see the things in people that to Sherlock just didn't matter. It had something to do with years of medical training as a doctor. Harriet was after reassurance. When she asked Sherlock about Moriarty his answers were blunt and to the point, he never cushioned the blow that came with his words. Sherlock would often forget that Harriet was more sensitive than John was; he'd explain cases and experiments in good detail over breakfast and then wonder why Harriet would lose her appetite. John had learnt to live with it. He wanted say to Harriet that everything would be fine and Sherlock would solve it like any other case but she was owed his honesty, "I want to say yes but I can't really be sure."

"I'd like to sit them both down and give them a good talking to but they aren't children, well," she smiled, "at least not physically."

John and Harriet had lunch and then tackled desert to give them strength to wrestle with a sulking Sherlock when they returned. Harriet suggested that John should ask the waitress out that had been eyeing him up from where she was polishing cutlery at the bar. John blushed having been caught ogling her and left the bistro with her number. "Put an end to the Bachelor John Watson," she said playfully as the bill was paid. Their main point of conversation over the walk back had been the press. It was putting a strain on all of them all except for Sherlock who seemed to think nothing of it except when they printed the hat photograph.

Sherlock was moping in his chair when they got home, "hi," Harriet greeted weakly feeling guilty for throwing out the experiment, she could have moved it instead. There was no answer from the consultant detective. "Good day?" still no answer. "We had a good lunch," nothing. Harriet frowned, "any news on Moriarty?" she was hoping for a response of some kind but again she received nothing. The consultant detective silently got up and sat down at this microscope in the kitchen after removing his coat and scarf ignoring Harriet and John. He clattered about with chemicals and fired up his Bunsen burner. It interfered with the television that they sat down to watch. Harriet turned it up.

As Sherlock indulged in his favourite past time Harriet sat in the living room with John. She was gasping for a drink. Now she had to face him and couldn't promise that she'd hold her tongue. "If I don't come back I lived a good life," she joked, "want anything while I'm in the trenches?" John laughed and wished her good luck.

Harriet poured herself a juice from the fridge and causally leant against the kitchen worktop, "what are you working on?" Sherlock tipped what he'd ground in the pestle and mortar into the boiling beaker on the Bunsen burner and ignored her question. Harriet sighed knowing it wasn't going to be easy, especially when he was having one of his monumental sulks, "I'm sorry. I could have moved them but honestly, in the sink? I won't touch them in future, alright?"

His eyes betrayed him as he glanced at Harriet, "I'm glad to hear it." Sherlock's sulk evaporated much like the liquid in the Beaker. The infuriating woman had broken him again.

"Got any cases?" Harriet asked out of concern more than interest.

"None that are worth my time," he replied coolly trying hard to keep up his act.

Harriet prepared herself for a scathing comment as she asked her next question, "Why not take an email case? Something that isn't high profile. If you keep taking high-profile cases they'll do you more harm than good," She was on John's side. "Maybe a case from a blog comment?"

"They are dull," he mumbled as he added something else to the beaker. Harriet blinked in surprise. That was it? No insult?

"It's the job of the police to solve crimes, I'm sure they'd have coped without you," Harriet was aware that she was stepping into enemy territory as she touched on the topic.

"With nothing from Moriarty what else am I supposed to do with my time?" Sherlock sat back and waited to see what Harriet had to say.

"Well I hope you know what you're doing then," Harriet returned to the living room leaving Sherlock with food for thought.

Harriet was reading the newspaper a few days later; she chuckled to herself as she turned the page to find a cartoon. It was Sherlock, "they really captured your cheek bones," she teased.

"I suppose you think you can do better?" Sherlock challenged. She accepted his challenge. It was only the pair of them home. John popped out to the cash machine to ensure that he'd have money in his wallet to continue to pay for Sherlock's taxis.

**Thank you for your patience. John**

Mycroft. Wonderful. John was whisked away to the Diogenes club. He knew where he was immediately. Gentlemen were sat around the wood panelled room indulging in solitary pastimes. Mycroft Holmes wasn't one of them. John looked about him and remembered what Sherlock said about silence being sacred. Well sod it. Mycroft couldn't just whisk him away and then expect him to wait at Mycroft's convenience.

When he finally got to speak to Mycroft, after being dragged down the hall with his mouth covered by a gloved hand, the Iceman in question lectured him on tradition. John picked up a tabloid newspaper from the table. On Saturday there would be a big expose on the great Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't the purpose for his forced visit to Mycroft. The elder Holmes got down to business and handed the ex-army doctor a set of files for hit men that within the last few weeks had moved to within the immediate vicinity of 221 Baker Street. Moriarty flashed across John's mind in big red letters. One thing was certain Mycroft was concerned for his brother. "Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him?" Mycroft looked away and focussed his attention on his glass on the table. "Oh god, don't tell me," sometimes where the Holmes brothers were concerned it was best to leave well enough alone.

"We both know what's coming John," Mycroft wasn't done yet, "Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival."

John knew exactly what Mycroft was asking, "So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won't accept your help?"

"If it's not too much trouble," Mycroft sounded bored.

"And Harriet?" John turned back and prompted the elder Holmes, "she didn't ask for any of this."

On this Mycroft was less than helpful, "Harriet Thornton is a grown woman who can walk away at any moment, god help us when she does."

"She can't. She's in love with your brother," to anyone but Sherlock it was plain as day.

"Love is-"

"Oh don't start with that. I hear it enough from Sherlock who believe it or not is in love with her!" John was breathing heavily. Mycroft was just as frustrating as his brother at times.

"My brother is incapable of love, John," Mycroft's tone was all business.

"No. No he isn't. No one is," John walked out having heard enough.

"Is that supposed to be me?" Sherlock eyed the doodle with distain. Harriet couldn't draw to save her life. The best she could do to accept Sherlock's challenge had been a stick figure with a poorly drawn violin and, in Harriet's opinion, a perfectly drawn deerstalker. Harriet tore the paper from the note pad she was using and stuck the doodle to the fridge using a magnet. The doorbell rang as they were admiring her work of art, "Lestrade," with that one word Sherlock was out of the kitchen and down the stairs.

John's taxi pulled up outside Baker Street. Outside, resting against the door frame, sat a brown envelope sealed with red wax. Out of curiosity John opened it, breadcrumbs? "Sherlock something weird…what's going on?"

"Kidnapping," the breadcrumbs were forgotten for now.

Sherlock and John found themselves at a posh boarding school in Surrey. Harriet remained behind with the request that whilst they were out of the city she stayed at home. Moriarty's threat of a fall couldn't last forever. 'It's going to start very soon,' Moriarty's words were persistently at the forefront of Sherlock's mind day and night. It was a waiting game and not one he was eager to play. Having seen the crime scene and gathered sufficient evidence, a scraping of a footprint, they returned to Baker Street. The book of fairy tales in the girl's room had Moriarty back in Sherlock's thoughts during the drive.

Molly was leaving for a lunch date with the girls from her university days. She'd just put on her coat when two very familiar visitors to her lab walked through the doors. She didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that she'd be cancelling her lunch date still it was worth a try but as the consultant detective and his closest friend passed her in the corridor waving a bag of quavers she knew she had little choice in the matter. It had very little to do with the fact she was head over her heels for the enigmatic man not that she had the courage to admit it. She wanted to shout at the consultant detective to get out of her lab after he insulted her ability to have a functioning relationship. It was always like that with him. He'd say something hurtful and she would pamper to his every whim.

Sherlock went to work using the oil he retrieved from the footprint to lead him to the kidnapper. Molly decided to get on with some much needed paper work as Sherlock used and abused her lab. Her lunch date with the girls had been cancelled and rearranged for the weekend so that doing the paperwork now instead of then no longer seemed like a bad thing. Doing her paperwork only lasted so long before Sherlock made yet another demand. She ran a run off the mill test using litmus paper to test the pH of the solution in the petri dish Sherlock handed her. As he called her John and not Molly she began to once again regret the cancellation of lunch. Was it really so much to ask for him to notice her?

Sherlock's brain was being pushed as he contemplated the glycerol molecule that he'd found. His phone went off in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw it was from Harriet.

_Any news on the missing children? - HT_

He didn't have time to reply. John's phone went off at the same time, "it's from Harriet, wants to know if we've found the children," Sherlock spoke as John read the message that was indeed from Harriet.

"Who's Harriet?" Molly asked innocently.

"Sherlock's girlfriend," John answered without a second thought.

"Oh," Molly's voice was strained as she plastered a fake smile onto her face, "was it her phone you were x-raying?" John immediately felt sorry for the pathologist as he sent a reply.

"No," that had been the woman's. Sherlock pushed Harriet from his mind and concentrated on the glycerol.

"What is she like?" Molly had to ask even though she knew she didn't want the answer.

John spoke up for Sherlock who didn't care for the mindless chatter, "she's a teacher and keeps Sherlock in check."

Molly forced a laugh and returned to her work wounded by the discovery of Sherlock's girlfriend but she couldn't stay focussed. She needed a break. Molly went to the bathroom and locked herself in the loo. Of course Sherlock would have a girlfriend. It would explain why he never showed any interest in her or any other woman. She was determined not to cry. Maybe they wouldn't work out and there would be hope for her yet and if that was the case then it was no use hiding in the ladies loos.

Whoever she was she was a lucky woman, Molly decided. She had what Molly didn't which, as Molly stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, was quite a lot. Molly pulled herself together, her heartbreak could wait. Sherlock was there for a reason and that reason was kidnapped children.

The consultant detective borrowing her lab was muttering away to himself, "I O U. I O U." At first she assumed it had something to do with the content of the slide under his microscope but now she wasn't so sure. There was a melancholy look upon on his face one that she hadn't seen on Sherlock before. When she asked he fobbed her off with an excuse.

Molly finally plucked up the courage to really look at Sherlock since the revelation that he had a girlfriend. She voiced the first thought that crossed her mind, "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead," Molly closed her eyes in embarrassment. Conversation really wasn't her strong point around Sherlock. "No, sorry."

"Molly please don't feel the need to make conversation," Sherlock liked silence when he worked; "it's really not your area." And there it was another insulting comment. His girlfriend must put up with a lot.

Despite what Sherlock said Molly continued, "When he was dying he was always cheerful, he was always lovely." She had fond memories of her father, "Except when he thought no one was looking. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly," Sherlock warned.

"You look sad when you think he can't see you," she implied John. Sherlock flicked his eyes over to John who was safely out of ear shot and otherwise occupied. He had to abandon what he was doing to pay complete attention to what Molly was saying. "You okay? And don't just say you are because I know what that means looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me," Sherlock observed the sentimental Molly.

"I don't count," it was true. In Sherlock's life there was very few people privilege to really know the man. There was John, Lestrade and his brother, Mycroft, who Molly had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting the first time Sherlock set foot in her lab several years ago and now Harriet to woman who had his heart. Molly just wasn't one of them as had become painstakingly clear that afternoon; she was just the pathologist in the lab. "What I'm trying to say is if there is anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all you can have me," she paused for a moment as she stumbled over her words, "no, I just mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine." She gave up.

"W-what could I need from you?" he contemplate her words and her behaviour. It was no use. Women were complicated mysteries; he'd learnt that from Harriet and the woman.

"Nothing, I dunno. You could probably say thank you actually."

Sherlock was unsure why he found himself saying, "thank you." Molly offered him more crisps. Something tugged at Sherlock as he felt himself saying he would but she disregarded his request. John's intrusion was a welcome one for the awkward situation Sherlock found himself in. He had an envelope with the same seal as the one found in the girls box of possession.

Breadcrumbs. Hardback copy of fairy tales. Kidnapping. Two children. Breadcrumbs. Fairy tales. Male suspect. Two children led into the forest by a wicked father. Follow a trail of breadcrumbs. Hansel and Gretel. Moriarty. Kidnapper. All fairy tales need a good old fashioned villain. Moriarty. The children wouldn't follow breadcrumbs it had to be something else. Something sweeter. The witch's house. Glycerol molecule. Chocolate. PGPR.

Sherlock read the Grimm fairy tales as a child and they were retained in his memory tucked away in his mind palace. With the discovery of the glycerol molecule Sherlock left the lab taking John with him.

Molly returned with another bag of crisps and a hot chocolate from the vending machine. The lab was empty. "Oh," she looked around at the mess that she was once again left to clean.

The trail of breadcrumbs led Sherlock and John with Lestrade's team to a disused factory in Addlestone. The two children were found alive. They'd been fed chocolates wrapped in a foil covered with mercury. The children were taken to the nearest hospital for fear of mercury poisoning.

Sherlock walked into the young girl's room first to be met with a piercing scream. It gave him a lot to think about as he stared out of the window. On the opposite side of the street an office building lit up momentarily displaying **I O U** across the windows before turning off again. It was the briefest of moments but it was enough for Sherlock to see Moriarty's taunt.

_On our way back, children found alive- John_

John was forced to wait for another taxi as Sherlock rode alone. He used the time to touch base with Harriet who was still at Baker Street. John knew that being so wrapped up in the case as he was Sherlock wouldn't think to communicate with the worrying Harriet. To stop her from worrying further John decided to refrain from adding that it was Moriarty. His taxi came to an abrupt halt as they encountered an incident. He got out to see what was going on. Sherlock was involved.

The assassin, a neighbour of theirs, was carted off in an ambulance. Sherlock stood to the side in frantic thought. The video in the taxi. Moriarty reading a children's story. Moriarty being the taxi driver. He'd been too absorbed in Moriarty to notice the car heading his way. The assassin saved his life but paid for it with his. Sherlock rubbed his thumb against his index finger in agitation. What did Moriarty mean by Sir Boast-a-lot?

"Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn't come here to kill me they came here to keep me alive," Sherlock couldn't get his coat off quick enough once they were home.

Harriet switched the television off at the boy's noisy entrance, "Did I hear that right?" Assassins on the doorstep? I suppose they are calling around for tea and biscuits as well?"

"Not now Harriet," Sherlock reprimanded. She closed her mouth that was about to retort off its own accord. This was serious. Sherlock sat at his laptop, "I've got something that all of them want."

"What happened?" Harriet pulled John to the side.

"Moriarty was behind the kidnapping. The children are safe in hospital don't worry they'll be fine," John explained seeing the worry on Harriet's face.

John's explanation hadn't answered her question completely, "And Sherlock?"

"Almost hit by car and was saved by an assassin who was killed for doing so," he hastily explained keeping his voice low.

"Oh," just when she thought she'd heard it all John would bring home another story, "You mentioned Moriarty?" John nodded in response. Harriet didn't like it; she left John and stood behind Sherlock as his fingers danced over the keys of his laptop. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder that was more for her own comfort.

"All of the attention is focused on me. There's a surveillance web closing in on us right now," Sherlock was focussed solely on the task at hand.

John was checking the window expecting more trouble, "so what have you got that's so important?"

Sherlock ignored his question, "Miss Thornton!" he exclaimed, "what cleaning have you done this week? You and Mrs Hudson still have the arrangement that you clean up here and she does the rest of the house, yes?"

"Errrrrm," his question caught her by surprise.

He wiped a finger along the table, "dust. What have you dusted?" he got to his feet and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Think! In the last week, what?"

"I had a lazy week," Harriet confessed, "I hovered but that was it." That was excellent news to Sherlock who kissed her firmly on the lips. He then sprang into action searching every nook and cranny in the flat. Harriet looked to John for an explanation. He shrugged.

"Cameras, we're being watched," Sherlock was aware that he was the only making an effort to look.

Harriet watched as Sherlock climbed up the bookcase using a chair, "you'll break your neck," she said, a remnant of warning kids when she was teaching.

"Not my biggest concern right now," Sherlock wiggled a book having found a break in the dust line. The doorbell rang as he stepped down with a tiny camera in his hand. "No inspector, the answer's no." Lestrade's visit was something Sherlock had been waiting for since the scream in the hospital. He was being suspected of the kidnapping.

"You haven't heard the question," Lestrade said forgetting that he was there to take Sherlock to the station.

"You want to take me to the station I'm just saving you the trouble of asking," it wasn't a guess.

Lestrade inhaled deeply, "Sherlock-"

"The scream? Was it Donavan? I bet it was Donavan. _Am I_ somehow responsible for the killing, awhhh Moriarty is smart."

Harriet was still trying to get her head around what was going on when Sherlock mentioned Moriarty, "you're smarter," she told him quietly although the other's heard.

Sherlock stopped his explanation at her blind faith in him. Was she expecting something in return? No. He had to stick to the facts, "He planted that doubt in her head, that little nagging sensation. You're going to have to be strong to resist, you can't kill and idea, can you?"

"Will you come?" the detective inspector had to ask despite already knowing the answer.

"One photograph that's his game, one photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. It is a game Lestrade and not one I'm willing to play. Give my regards to Sargent Donavan," Sherlock sat back at his laptop.

Harriet and John exchanged a look as Lestrade left without Sherlock. "Oh god!" Harriet looked at the image on Sherlock's laptop, "I've been in here in my underwear."

"And not much else," Sherlock added in a dry undertone for Harriet to hear. She blushed.

John watched Lestrade drive away. "They'll be deciding."

"Deciding?" John inquired.

"Deciding whether to come and arrest me," the consultant detective elaborated.

"No. Sorry, just no!" Harriet ran her hand through her hair, "You come in here talking about Moriarty, there are hidden cameras and now Lestrade wants to arrest you. I'm putting my foot down."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he watched the young teacher stamp her foot for effect, "Miss Thornton calm down Mrs Hudson will wonder what on earth is going on up here."

"You are such an insufferable arse! Don't Miss Thornton me and I'm certainly not calming down. Don't you see what is going on here?" John hovered awkwardly near the window it was best for the two of them to sort it between themselves not that it stopped him from playing referee. Harriet was placid for so long and then she'd snap when Sherlock pushed her too far.

"I can see perfectly well what's going on," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

Sherlock's reply was enough to keep the fire in Harriet burning, "you're such an idiot at times. This is playing right into Moriarty's hand. We need to go now."

Sherlock turned back to his laptop, "I'm not going anywhere at least not until Lestrade comes back."

"For crying out loud Sherlock! Moriarty can throw himself from a high place for all I care. We need to get out the country or at least London till you can sort this out. You can't do that from behind bars. Just," her anger dissipated, "don't leave me here alone so that you can carry on having this childish game with Moriarty because if he wins…"

"Sherlock she's right," John cut in, "you should have gone with Lestrade when you had the chance, people will think-"

"I don't _care_ what people think," he spat.

"I _think_ you're being an insufferable arse. Listen to us just once. You can't have all the answers all the time," Harriet waited for the inevitable insult.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're a," John raised his voice. They were ganging up on him.

"That I'm what?" Sherlock's tone warned John that he was on dangerous ground.

"A fraud," John answered.

"You're worried they're right about me," Sherlock sat back, "It's even niggling away in the back of Miss Thornton's mind despite her persistent loyalty. Both of you are afraid you've been taken in as well. Moriarty is playing with your mind, can't you see what's going on!" Sherlock's hand slammed onto the table. Harriet jumped in surprise.

"No, I know you for real," John's calm voice opposed Sherlock's outburst.

"One hundred percent?" it was better to deal with facts and figures.

John turned back from the window, "no one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

"Alright, enough," Harriet turned Sherlock's words against him, "Answer me this, if this is a game that you are not willing to play why are you playing it?"

"Moriarty won't stop not until he's burned me. I have to play," there was no other option open to him.

"Not if you don't want to. Get away from here and take down Moriarty on your own terms and not his," Harriet tried to reason.

Sherlock laughed, "You really think it's that easy? Oh Harriet, I thought you were better than that."

Harriet shrugged of his derogatory comment with her own choice words, "Don't be a git."

"You don't want to believe it because if I am a fraud then the last thing you have has been snatched out from underneath you," Sherlock's words were a bitter truth, "People are so stupid. Investing in sentiment, where does it get you?"

"Just stop it!" John stepped in, "Harriet has done nothing wrong."

"You think it's easier if people hate you," Harriet had to get out the room away from Sherlock and his hurtful words, "I've seen you care Sherlock."

"You should hate me. I'm a high function sociopath I'm not capable of sentiment or caring," he stared her down with an icy glare.

Harriet stepped closer to him, "drop the farce, Sherlock," she pleaded.

"It's not a farce. Never has been," his words cut through her.

"Well done Sherlock," John chided as Harriet left.

Harriet took herself from the room. There was nowhere for her to go to be alone. She sat at the top of the stairs in the dark hallway. Sherlock's words hurt. She knew he cared. He'd shown her on so many occasions, hadn't he?

'_I had a momentary lapse in sanity and kissed you.'_

'_You have the wrong impression of me.'_

'_Love is a disadvantage found on the losing side.'_

'_I simply don't need you at the moment.'_

'_I don't need a girlfriend.'_

'_You should hate me.'_

She couldn't hate him. He said hurtful and unfeeling things at times but she couldn't hate him not like she hated Moriarty. Not like she hated Cash. Sherlock was like a child who needed to know right from wrong. John was good at that but was Harriet? She couldn't match him for intelligence; he'd informed her of that on numerous occasions. So what was she? The first time he kissed her it had been to prove a point a fact he stressed. Was she a play thing for him to pick up and drop as and when he saw fit?

"Don't dwell on what he says. He doesn't mean it," John sat next to Harriet on the stairs once again cleaning up Sherlock's messes.

"I wasn't," she replied.

"You don't need to lie to me, I'm not Sherlock," he smiled having a good idea how Harriet was feeling. The same thoughts crossed John's mind back when he first met Sherlock but the more time he spent with the more he'd been shown just how human Sherlock was.

"What do we do?" she asked, "he's not going to listen."

"We do what we've always done and trust Sherlock, now come on," John helped Harriet to her feet.

"Oh, glad I've caught you. Are you going out?" Mrs Hudson was halfway up the stairs in her nighty clearly not having heard the raised voices over her television. John and Harriet were still stood in the hallway.

"Some chap delivered a parcel, I forgot. Marked perishable, I had to sign for it, funny name, German, like the fairy tales," Mrs Hudson handed over a parcel in the same paper and red seal as the breadcrumbs and the fairy tales. John took it. "Are you alright Harriet? You look a bit pale," Mrs Hudson fussed, "have the boys been looking after you?"

"Yes its fine," Harriet's smile didn't quite reach her ears.

"Burnt to a crisp," Sherlock popped the p as he took the charred gingerbread man from John. The sound of sirens could be heard faintly in the background.

"Harriet," Sherlock was stood in the doorway when she turned around, "I'm sorry." The sound of sirens was growing louder. Harriet kept her distance, "Stay here with Mrs Hudson and don't get involved."

"Involved in what?" her voice was blocked by the doorbell. Sherlock picked up his scarf, "Involved in what, Sherlock? You getting arrested?"

"Yes," he had the scarf on.

John's voice could be heard demanding a warrant before letting Lestrade and his team in.

Harriet roughly grabbed hold of Sherlock as he put his coat on in a last ditch attempt to make him see sense, "how could you be so stupid?" Sherlock kissed her cheek and gently pushed her away. He stood in silence as he waited for Lestrade.

"Sherlock Holmes I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping," Lestrade informed the consultant detective.

The handcuffs were snapped on, "Sherlock," Harriet pleaded one final time but it was too late. There was no getting out of it. Mrs Hudson stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Harriet.

"He's not resisting," John's body language said it all.

"It's alright John, Harriet."

"No it's not alright, this is ridiculous," John equally had something to say.

Lestrade having heard enough barked orders to his team. It was better to get it over with. "Get him downstairs now."

Harriet stepped in front of Lestrade as Sherlock was manhandled from the room, "Lestrade, don't take him. It's what Moriarty wants. Sherlock told you that when is he ever wrong?"

"You know you," John and Harriet were both trying to stop what was happening.

Lestrade had to get tough, "Don't try to interfere," he pointed between them, "or I'll arrest you too." Harriet stopped. She'd been to jail once.

"It's your fault," Harriet rounded on the only other officer in the room, Sargent Donavan. "Sherlock is ten times what you are. He's solved your crimes and never asked for anything and this is how you repay him."

"Oh I said it, first time we met," Donavan ignored Harriet and spoke to John, "solving crimes won't be enough. One day he'll cross the line. Now ask yourself, both of you, what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he could impress us all by finding them?"

"Donavan got our man?" a new face entered Baker Street one that neither John nor Harriet had seen before.

"Errrrrm yes sir," Donavan answered as she returned Harriet's glare.

"A bit of a weirdo if you ask me, they often are," he looked around the disorganised flat.

"No one was asking you," Harriet spat.

"These vigilante types," the man continued. John stepped closer with a loathing scowl, "what you looking at?"

"John!" Harriet shouted as Mrs Hudson gasped and Donavan stepped forward. John's fist planted itself firmly onto the senior member of the police forces nose. The man cradled his bloody nose as he demanded for John's arrest.

John was carted downstairs. Harriet wasn't allowed to step over the front door step as John joined Sherlock against a police car. Mrs Hudson followed Harriet down the stairs as quick as her dodgy hip allowed her. "It'll be alright dear. Sherlock will sort it out," she patted the young teachers arm.

"I hope so," she watched as John was cuffed to Sherlock.

"Bit awkward this," Sherlock said to John as he joined him. This was going to make escaping more difficult. Sherlock took a quick check of the surroundings and the people involved. His eye fell on the radio in the car. He squeezed the button sending a piercing screech to the ears of the officers. It gave him all the time he needed to snatch a gun and take John hostage in his grand escape.

"What the bloody hell is he doing?" Harriet had to be held back by Mrs Hudson.

John looked to his friend with genuine fear as he fired the gun in two successive shots. "We're doing what Moriarty wants, becoming a fugitive. Run!" the pair took off down the street as the police fumbled with a pursuit.

"Harriet, dear, where are you going?" Mrs Hudson inquired as Harriet made a dash for the stairs.

"I'm sorting this out. Mycroft will listen," she snatched up her phone and scrolled through for Mycroft's number. "They arrested your brother," she didn't bother with a hello.

"Again?" Mycroft sounded fed up.

"No. This is different and you know it so do something, you are the British Government, aren't you?" she demanded.

"What do you expect me to do Miss Thornton, I can't clean up my brothers messes all the time," what Harriet couldn't see was Mycroft rubbing his temples as he hung up. Harriet threw her phone down onto the table with force. "Moriarty is going after the wrong brother!"

* * *

><p><strong>I never saw this becoming this long and I finished it before Downton Abbey, an added bonus. Thanks to every one who's reading, alerting and favouriting.<strong>

**Gwilwillith- Cheers for the review. **

**Way Worse Than Scottish- Love Moriarty, he's brilliant. Thanks for the lovely long review.**


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

'_**Any intelligent fool can make things bigger and more complex... It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage to move in the opposite direction'**__**  
><strong>_**Albert Einstein**

"That's not the police," Sherlock said as soon as John, thanks to his army training, realised they were being followed as they tore down the alleyways of London with the sound of sirens echoing off damp walls. Of course Sherlock was already aware that one of his assassin/neighbours was following them.

Harriet called Mycroft back in annoyance not caring about the police occupying the flat. His answer hadn't been good enough. The elder Holmes brother didn't take the call it went to voicemail. "Harriet?" Mrs Hudson asked tentatively as her distant relative stormed about the flat looking for shoes and her coat. "Where are you going?"

"Going to give Mycroft as piece of my mind. He's the only left who can help, he can work his government magic," the only pair of shoes Harriet could locate were the abandoned low heeled lace up brogues under the table. They weren't ideal but they would do. Her other shoes had been tidied away after Sherlock moaned about them cluttering up the place in one of his unbearable moods.

Lestrade was still outside when Harriet shot passed him despite his yelling, "Harriet! Do you know where Sherlock is?" she didn't reply, it wasn't Sherlock she was going to see. She hailed a taxi at the end of the street; traffic had begun to build up as a result of the closure of the street.

The taxi slammed on its breaks behind a bus. Regaining her senses Harriet looked out the window into the dark night. Two familiar figures were flat against the footpath. Hastily she thrust a ten pound note at the driver and got out. Her heels clattering on the pavement as she hastily walked over.

"Sherlock Holmes what the bloody hell are you playing at!" the volume in Harriet's voice was unlike any John had heard before. Sherlock groaned next to him. Her visit to Mycroft was forgotten.

"Harriet! Are you so incapable of listening to a simple instruction? I told you to stay with Mrs Hudson and _not_ get involved," Sherlock rebuked the livid young woman as he got to his feet.

She wasn't interested in what Sherlock had to say, "No. You listen to me. I'm not going to sit at home whilst you take John hostage and jump in front of busses." The bus had since driven off.

"I'm not really a hostage," John defended his friend.

"Keep out of this John!" Harriet snapped, "Even if you were an absolute prat back there I still want to help. This isn't like one of your normal cases."

"Oh for god's sake, can you not see the body on the floor?" Sherlock referred to the dead assassin and yanked on Harriet's hand dragging her along the street as they ran. She stumbled as she dared to chance a glance at the body in confusion. Her legs couldn't keep up and her arm ached as Sherlock dragged her along pulling her arm from its socket. The police sirens were still a constant whir in the background as their feet pounded on the concrete. Sherlock pulled both John and Harriet into a doorway out of sight of a passing police car. Harriet was the only one struggling. She bent over with a stitch in her side reminding her exactly why she hated running not to mention the fact her shoes had a heel and were causing quite a bit of trouble.

Sherlock was only slightly out of breath as he voiced what was going on inside his head, "It's a game changer. It's a key that can break into any system and its sitting in our flat right now. That's why he left that message telling everyone where to come. Get Sherlock. We need to get back into the flat and search it."

"Harriet can get in," John suggested.

"She won't be able to find it," Sherlock shunned the idea earning him an "Oi!" from the woman in question.

"Why plant it on you?" John inquired

"It's another supple way of smearing my name now I'm best pals with all those criminals," Sherlock rounded on Harriet having reconsidered John's suggestion, "Go back to the flat. _Don't_ get involved again. Look for the computer key code if you must do something." She accepted the compromise and made a mental note to thank John Watson later.

Harriet was going to leave them to but needed to make sure that due to the circumstances of the case they would be alright or at the very least try to be okay, "You take of yourselves, both of you and just send me a text so I know that you haven't completely discarded road safety, I mean seriously a bus? A car, sure, there's a chance you might walk away from that but a bus."

Sherlock cut Harriet of as she delayed her departure, "Good bye Miss Thornton." Harriet smiled with a slight blush that he'd been onto her game. She kissed him on the cheek and gave John a quick hug whispering in his ear that he look out for Sherlock.

"Have you seen this?" John picked up a newspaper left on some plastic crates as Sherlock watched to make sure Harriet got into a taxi and returned to Baker Street. He spared the article a fleeting look.

John and Sherlock tracked down Kitty Riley, the journalist who wrote the article. Sherlock recognised the name immediately. She was the woman from the trial. Oh wonderful, she'd gotten her story elsewhere. The Baker Street duo found out all they could from the woman as they waited in the dark of her flat on the small leather sofa. Had the situation been any different John might have commented that people would talk what with the handcuffs still keeping them close. They were met with a surprise as they demanded answers from the aspiring journalist. Moriarty walked in talking about something as ordinary as coffee. The consultant detective's eyes widened in surprise as John tensed his jaw expecting the worst.

"So that's your source. Moriarty is Richard Brook," it took all of John's nerve not to seize Moriarty right there and then. Kitty Riley explained that there had never been a Moriarty.

"Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man. Don't hurt me," Rich Brooke pleaded with his hands up in surrender.

John saw red as Rich Brook spoke, "No you were Moriarty! He's Moriarty! We've met remember? You were going to blow me up!"

Richard 'Moriarty' Brook made a desperate apology explaining that Sherlock paid him. John demanded an explanation from Sherlock Kitty cut in handing John her finished masterpiece of an article. The ex-army doctor continued to yell at Richard Brook as Kitty continued to defend with proof. Sherlock was quiet throughout the exchange as he focussed all his attention on the consultant criminal. Finally Sherlock showed signs of life as he stepped closer to Moriarty, "No. Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me!" Richard Brook fell back onto the stairs.

"Stop it. Stop it now!" Sherlock roared. Moriarty darted for the bathroom and its window as John and Sherlock pursued him through the tiny flat but he was long gone.

"You know what Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can read you. Paying Richard to be your master villain. Even going as far as to manipulate yourself a girlfriend. _You_ repel me," Kitty invaded Sherlock's personal space. Neither he nor John dignified her with a response as they left the flat in a hurry.

"He's got my whole life story. That's what you do you sell a big lie, wrap it up in a truth to make it more palatable," Sherlock paced frantically up and down as John scanned through the article again.

"Sherlock, Harriet is mentioned. There is no way that you are that twisted as to manipulate her into a relationship. I see the two of you every day, hell I even listen to you complain about each other and no offense mate but you aren't exactly the easiest person to live with," John reached the end of the article.

"There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his," Sherlock left his sentence unfinished as the realisation hit home. He left John alone in the deserted street. John sighed, where could he go? Back to Baker Street was out of the question. He phoned Harriet as he walked to the end of the deserted street.

Harriet pulled every book from the bookshelf as she searched for the computer code. She'd been there with Sherlock when Moriarty had paid his visit and hadn't seen him touch anything except for the half eaten apple and the tea cup. In frustration she swept papers from the table onto the floor in a way that Sherlock, under different circumstances, would have been proud of. Her eyes fell on the tiny camera. Moriarty could have planted the code when the flat was empty. She searched behind the cushions on the chair finding a battery, a slide for the microscope, some spare change and John's latest laptop password written on a post-it note. Harriet's phone rang, "Have you found the code?" John asked immediately.

"No. I've looked everywhere. I can't think where else it could be," she sandwiched the phone between her ear and shoulder as she checked behind pictures leaving them at an angle in her haste.

"I need you to meet me. He needs our help," she couldn't say no but right at that moment she had a code to find

"Sherlock doesn't want me involved and we need to find the code," she was now on her hands and needs feeling around under the settee, nothing but cobwebs and a shard of glass.

"Forget it. You know what he said; you won't be able to find it. Meet me at the Diogenes club," John hung up.

Molly reached the end of her day. After cleaning up Sherlock's earlier mess, which as usual took twice as long as she expected, she shut of the lights with a sigh. Now she could go home and curl up with a glass of wine and forget about the incorrigible consultant detective. "You're wrong, you know," Molly leapt out of her skin as the familiar baritone voice of Sherlock filled the silent lab, "you do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you but you were right, I'm not okay." Molly was the only one who could help him. The pathologist turned to look at him. He was nothing like his usual self as he manipulated her into doing his bidding. This time it was different. She wasted no time in asking what was wrong. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

When Harriet arrived at the Diogenes club and after paying the driver she sprung up the steps and marched up to the first person she saw, "Mycroft Holmes. Point me in his direction, now," she spoke with authority. She caught sight of the aforementioned Holmes passing her in the doorway singing his umbrella and carrying his briefcase. "Mycroft!" she yelled. He stopped, closing his eyes and letting out a breath of air.

He faked a smile and prepared to meet the woman belonging to the voice, "Miss Thornton."

"She has really done her homework," John turned around to see Mycroft followed by a murderous looking Harriet.

"I am popular," Mycroft commented as he settled himself into the room aware of why the two visitors were there.

John continued ignoring Mycroft's comment, "It's the things that only someone really close to Sherlock could know. Have you seen your brothers address book lately? Three names, all are in this room and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me, did he get it from you, Harriet?"

"No," Harriet said with a frown. She hadn't seen the article but had a pretty idea as to what John was talking about. The headline on the paper was the only bit she could see clearly. She took the now crumpled article from John and read it through.

"How does it work then? Your relationship, do you go out for a coffee then? You and Jim? Your own brother and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac," John wanted answers.

Harriet, having had years of experience skimming through pupils work reached the end of the article, "what kind of person does that?"

"I never intended," Mycroft began.

Harriet wasn't going to cut him any slack, "How many times do you think I've heard an excuse starting with that? I never meant to hurt him miss. Miss, I didn't think. It was an accident miss."

Mycroft was calm as he explained himself, "I never dreamt-"

"This is what you were trying to tell me, watch his back because I made a mistake," John didn't have time for his excuses either.

"Someone like Moriarty doesn't just walk up to a government official and have a good old chinwag about his brother. You told me that you can't clean your brother's messes all of the time but this isn't his mess. This is yours. Spill it Mycroft," Harriet crossed her arms over her chest.

"People like Moriarty we know about them, we watch them," Mycroft began his explanation in earnest.

"Cut to the chase Mycroft," Harriet tapped her foot impatiently. John nodded in agreement.

"James Moriarty," Mycroft shook his head almost in disbelief, "The most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen and his pocket the ultimate weapon, a key code. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

John knew what was coming next before Mycroft finished his sentence, "and you abducted him to try and find the key code."

"We interrogated him for weeks and he wouldn't play along. The only thing that made him open up was-"

"Sherlock," Harriet was disgusted at what she was hearing.

"You offered him his life story," John could understand what Harriet was feeling.

"Selling him out," Harriet added.

"So it's one big lie, Sherlock's a fraud but people will swallow it because the rest of it is true," John paused for a moment thinking about what he was about to say, "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed and you have given him the perfect ammunition."

"Family doesn't do that," or at least Harriet's family wouldn't. John got his feet realising that they would get no more from Mycroft. They were one their own.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said sorrowfully.

John placed his arm around Harriet's shoulders and guided her to the door, "oh please," his laugh was hollow.

Harriet looked back at Mycroft as he sat in the high-backed leather chair looking truly sorry for himself, "tell him would you."

"Tell him yourself," she couldn't look at the man any longer. Neither John nor Harriet spoke as they left the club and wasn't out of respect for its rules on constant silence. Once outside Harriet turned to John, "Now what?"

Sherlock was waiting at St Bart's for the hours to tick by. He summoned John with a text and slouched on the floor against one of the cupboards bouncing a rubber ball against the opposite cupboard. He was thinking, "Got your message," John opened the door and let Harriet in first.

"You bought _her_," Sherlock spat. "I told you stay out of this," he turned on Harriet.

* * *

><p><strong>Getting close to the end. Thanks everyone for reading!<strong>

**Way Worse Than Scottish- Your shipping of John and Harriet has given me an idea, thank you! I was going to leave this story for a while but I might do a sequel for life after the fall, I can see Harriet and John needing each other to get through it. **

**newtofanfic- gaaah thank you :) **


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

'_**A system of morality which is based on relative emotional values is a mere illusion, a thoroughly vulgar conception which has nothing sound in it and nothing true'**__**  
><strong>_**Socrates**

"Yes he bought me," Harriet wasn't going to back down as the consultant detective made no secret of his annoyance.

"The computer code is key to this if we can find it we can beat Moriarty at his own game," Sherlock spoke quickly, "Miss Thornton was incapable of finding it."

"I looked everywhere," she defended.

"Clearly you weren't looking in the right places," he replied.

"I've torn the flat apart we can't all be as observant as you."

"Did you touch my skull?" Sherlock demanded.

"Alright," John held his hands up, they had bigger things than Sherlock's skull to worry about right now, "the computer key, what do you mean use it?"

"We can use it to create a false identity so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brooke," Sherlock explained.

"And bring back Moriarty again," John had the hint of a smile on his face happy that they weren't completely up a creek without a paddle.

Sherlock got to his feet as he sounded out the plan, "Somewhere in 221 B, somewhere on the day of the verdict he left it hidden,"

Harriet perched herself on the work surface in the clinical lab, "I was there Sherlock and I can't remember him touching anything. He wasn't out of your sight so where is it?"

John tapped his fingers on the desk as he thought. Sherlock still had the rubber ball in his hands resting on the table. John stepped away towards Harriet at the other end of the bench who whispered to him, "Do we tell him about Mycroft? Do we apologise for him?" Neither of them saw Sherlock step back from the bench as he realised what Moriarty had left. He turned away from them as he took out his phone.

"Let's see where this goes for now," John answered quietly. He was right there would be time for the brother's to sort it out between themselves later.

Sherlock, John and Harriet hid out at Bart's as dawn approached. "Go home," Sherlock spoke to Harriet who was making a list of places that the computer code could be hidden. John had been doing the same but had long since fallen asleep with his pen still in his hand.

"I want to help," she answered softly aware of John sleeping close by. She was desperate for sleep herself but couldn't not when now was her time to be of some use. She owed it to him and John after everything they had done for her.

Sherlock sighed and sat back in the swizzle chair with his eyes closed, "I don't _need_ your help."

"Tough, you've got no say in the matter," she returned to her list and added under the loose floor board in the hall. It could be possible. They hadn't seen Moriarty enter Baker Street.

"I have a say," Sherlock had to have the last word as he listen the sound of her pen scratching on the paper 'borrowed' from the lab.

The consultant detective fell into silence and closed his eyes as he went over the code. It was binary but how could he use it to bring back Moriarty? Harriet added more places to her list. "We went to see Mycroft." Sherlock opened his eyes, "He was as much use as a chocolate tea pot."

"My brother is my biggest arch enemy, what did you expect?" Sherlock sneered. Harriet had nothing more to say on the matter for the time being Mycroft could make his own apology when this was all over. She suspected that Sherlock knew a lot more than he was letting on as he answered her, he always did. The only sounds in the deserted lab were the feint hum of the strange equipment in the corner that Harriet couldn't name and the light snoring punctuated with the occasional snort coming from John. The ticking clock on the wall served as a reminder that dawn would soon be upon them.

Harriet's mind drifted as she tried to concentrate. The regular ticking of the clock was enough to send her to sleep. She yawned. Her eyes hurt from tiredness as she squinted at her list of possible places. It was barely half a page long. She glanced at Sherlock who appeared to be staring at nothing. Everything had changed in twenty four hours. Sherlock and John were fugitives and Moriarty was an ordinary civilian, the story teller. An actor on a children's television show not a consultant criminal.

Sherlock, how could she hate him? Harriet repeated to herself. He'd been so insistent that she should prior to his brief arrest. There was something else, the arrest. It was wrong. The cases he solved with John were good things. His methods may be questionable at times but the reasons were good and they'd saved people. How could she hate a man like that? It was impossible. "Just say it," Sherlock trained his gaze on her, "Whatever it is you are thinking it's distracting."

"Earlier you said I hate you but I don't. I don't think I can, ever, even if you do say some pretty awful things," she blurted out without a second thought. Her tired brain was on auto-pilot.

"I didn't say you did, I said you _should_, at least try to pay attention," Sherlock answered her. Harriet abandoned her list and was painfully aware that Sherlock was watching her every move as she walked over to where he was sat. She needed a break from thinking. It wasn't the best time to tackle the issue but right now they were at a dead end or so Harriet and John thought. Sherlock spared a glance at the sleeping form of John; Harriet moving closer was for the best. John's input wasn't needed in the conversation. They'd gang up on him again.

"Well I'm saying I can't and won't hate you, honestly," she rolled her eyes, "Why have you got that into your incredibly smart brain?" she poked him on the side of the head. His eyes darted to the side where her finger was in his peripheral vision. It was a deliberate move on her part to draw more of a reaction.

"My incredibly smart brain understands the situation," he was annoyed at her actions but said nothing. It was in their best interests to stay quiet something that was easier said than done when tackling such issues with Harriet.

"So help me to understand," she found herself saying as she leant against the workbench. Harriet felt she had a pretty good handle on the situation but apparently not.

Sherlock spun the chair around, "You read the article about me. _That _explains why."

"That article is nonsense," she saw Sherlock's shoulders tense.

"Everything is true apart from one lie, just one" he took a deep breath before continuing, "Your casual posture gives of the impression that this is nothing serious yet the way you fiddle with the hem of your blouse indicates that you know this is far more serious," Sherlock deduced with his back turned, "You're wearing heels, rather impractical of you so you put them on in a hurry. You were concerned. Dirt under your fingernails from looking for the code at 221 B clearly your cleaning skills aren't as good as you think they are. Right now you are biting on your lip to refrain from firing a sarcastic remark my way which at my mention you will have stopped but I can assure you I welcome the sarcasm."

"Show off," she smiled as she always did when she was impressed with his brilliant deductions, "I know you aren't a fake you don't have to prove it to me."

He continued without giving her chance to say anything else, "You spend enough time with a person you learn their habits."

"Of course you do but it's so much more with you. What you do strips away everything and makes people feel naked," she blushed at her confession glad that Sherlock had his back turned.

Sherlock spun the chair back around, "Do I make you-?"

"You know full well," Harriet grinned interrupting him, "When you barged your way into Mrs Hudson's you didn't know me and yet you could tell every tiny detail about me. It irritated me no end but now it's sort of cool, in moderation," she added as an afterthought.

"It's cool," Sherlock repeated not liking how that sounded. He always preferred 'neat'.

"Well fine, describe it how you will the point I was making is that Riley lady doesn't know you from Adam. So Mycroft spilled your entire life they are just facts that she's interpreted and used to her own advantage so how about we forget the newspaper article and concentrate on this code?" Harriet reasoned.

"I know where the code is," Sherlock stated before he could stop himself.

Harriet couldn't quite believe what she'd just heard, "Really? Just like that, oh, wait no," she paused at the expression on his face, "You've known all along. You've had John and me on a wild goose chase," her inner rant was voiced aloud as her tiredness made her irritable.

"It's in my head," he reasoned.

"So what is it?" Harriet asked eagerly. This was exactly what they needed, "What do we do with it? I'll wake John."

"No. I don't know what it is. I need to think," Sherlock palmed his hands together.

"What can I do to help?" Harriet had a feeling the only use she would be was in making coffee.

"Go home," Sherlock repeated his earlier request.

Harriet shook her head all she wanted to do was help in her own way, "Sitting at home really isn't going to accomplish anything. I've lost my home, my family and my job and yet here I am so shall we take it that I'm not going anywhere. I need to see this through to the end so I can get on with my life and make sure that you and John don't do something incredibly stupid like get arrested or jump in front of another bus."

"I don't need your help," Sherlock repeated his earlier answer.

"Really? Back to this again?" Harriet sighed, "You don't get it do you. I know I can't be of any use apart from making coffee but I can be here as moral support because I care," she was aware of how feeble that sounded when dealing with the consultant detective, "You've helped me over the last few months and now it's my turn to return the favour." Harriet stepped forward so that she was stood between his legs. She bought a hand up to rest on his cheek as her other took hold his cold fingers resting on his knee.

Sherlock spared a glance at the clock on the wall he was running out of time for his plan to work. Harriet and John were still at the lab. He needed them gone. He got to his feet pushing the chair back with force startling Harriet. John made a noise in his sleep and moved his head but didn't wake. Sherlock stepped close to Harriet as he towered over her, "Miss Thornton I don't _feel_. I don't _care_. Sentiment is inconvenient. It's a chemical reaction I can choose to ignore. I don't _care_ for the silly little notions you have about me. The silly notions about love. Love is an illusion. You are mistaken if you think I feel anything for you or care about you. Go back to Baker Street," Sherlock commanded.

"You can be a complete bastard at times Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock blinked as he took note of her response. Strained voice and pursed lips, clearly he'd hurt her feelings. Good. No, not good. If she left she would be safe but if she was there he could keep an eye on her. "I slapped Moriarty don't make me slap you too," it was her desperate attempt to make light of the situation the coping mechanism that he'd seen her use time and time again.

Sherlock took a step back and fixed her with a cold icy stare, "Go back to Baker Street. You've served your purpose. Leave." He walked away and sat back down lifting his feet onto the work surface. What he had said to Harriet would it be enough to get the result he needed? Sherlock had to be sure, "Miss Thornton," he called her back as she turned away from him, "One big truth wrapped up in a lie? I've been manipulating you from the start. Believe what you like about the great Sherlock Holmes being a fake everything else is true."

"What is wrong with you? You insufferable arse," Moriarty was a dangerous opponent and was putting a strain on all of them. Was Sherlock lashing out because of that? Lashing out in fear? Frustration? She'd seen him throw things in frustration before. No, this was emotions. Sherlock Holmes didn't know what to do with them.

"You are behaving like a child?" Harriet stepped closer again. "Stop pushing me away so you can do this alone. I've seen kids I teach say hurtful things so that I don't get to the bottom of what is really going on. They think that they have to face their problems alone."

"I'm not a child," he cut in as her words hit home.

"I never said you were I said behaving like one," her smile wasn't one of genuine amusement as she corrected the consultant detective. It was hollow and empty. Sometimes even Harriet's patience was tried when dealing with Sherlock.

Sherlock was getting nowhere with Harriet. He changed tact to combat her stubbornness, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she answered without a second thought confused by his U-turn.

"Then do what I ask," Sherlock sat back down dismissing her in the process. Harriet watched him for a moment as she tried to think of something else to say, "Leave. This is Moriarty we're dealing with so go home and be safe. You are a distraction."

"Oh," she realised at his final confession, "I really can't help, can I? You told me not to get involved," Harriet had the grace to look sheepish. In a her desperate need to prove that she wasn't useless, to prove that she could be of some use in helping them she had forgotten that she didn't know the first thing about dealing with a criminal mastermind. Since tagging along with John she'd been drawn in by the thrill.

"I appreciate the concern," Sherlock frowned at his own words.

"I'll go but this isn't finished Sherlock, you can't just ramble on about not having feelings one minute and then care about my safety the next. It's not how this works," Sherlock watched her lean forward and kiss his cheek.

At the last second he turned his head so that his lips caught hers. When she pulled away and looked at him with a quizzical frown he said nothing. He hoped that she'd take it as a gesture that he was trying to keep her happy and not because it could potential be the last time he felt her lips on his. If Moriarty was burning the heart out of him then he needed to keep Harriet and John at a distance. He was reducing the variables that would impact upon his plan. Harriet was gone and now it just left John. Molly had hopefully taken care of everything there as well as the other two things he's asked of her. Sherlock had identified a paramedic that was stealing medical supplies three weeks ago. Until now that fact had been useless information but now he could use it.

Molly, clutching her bag, stood awkwardly in the accident and emergency department. She watched as drunken men battered from fights were wheeled in through the main doors and straight into treatment as a young couple with a sickly looking child waited in the reception area. Life just wasn't fair sometimes. The child deserved the doctors time more than the drunks. Molly sighed a she watched the main doors. The man she was looking for hadn't come in yet but he would be there, she'd checked to make sure. "Life isn't fair," she whispered to herself as she huddled into her coat. It had been a long night and certainly not the first long night she' had as a result of the consultant detective that regularly occupied her lab. He'd been turning up for years to use and abuse her lab equipment and take advantage of her kind nature. Her friends had pointed that out time and time again as she dropped everything to be of some assistance to the man. A man that she thought was worth it, worth it enough to preserver all his harsh words and manipulations but she'd been wrong. Her heart had yearned after the enigmatic genius when all along she never had a chance. Molly wanted to hate the man and ban him from the lab but she wasn't that kind of person. Her kind nature wouldn't allow it.

When the consultant detective appeared in the lab as she was leaving for the night she couldn't turn him down. Molly had never seen Sherlock like that before. It was the only time he hadn't manipulated her to get what he wanted. He needed her help and she was going to give it to him. The first part had been easy. She'd left a syringe in the pocket of Sherlock's coat. The second part involved the man she was waiting for.

"Oh, excuse me, sorry," Molly was snapped from her reverie by the sight of the man she was looking for. A young male paramedic working the night shift the one that Sherlock assured her was stealing medical supplies to fuel his drug habit picked up whilst studying.

"Can I help?" the man asked with genuine concern. Molly paused for a moment, she wasn't used to people being so polite. Must be his training she thought to herself.

"I, err, yes," she cleared her throat before speaking clearer, "Yes. I work in the morgue, I-I'm Molly." Molly cursed herself. She wasn't supposed to be having a conversation; she was supposed to be confident and powerful as she blackmailed the man into doing what Sherlock wanted.

"Lee," he smiled wide. Oh, his smile. Molly was momentarily off track. It wasn't just his smile. He had tight dark curls on his head, tan skin and the richest brown eyes she had ever seen. "Well Molly what can I do for you?"

"Oh right. I'm," she was stuttering again. Could she be any more unthreatening? Molly took a deep breath and stood straighter but it still wasn't enough. Lee had a whole head height on her. "I know what you've been doing."

Lee laughed, "Oh?"

Molly could feel her face flush in embarrassment. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, "You've been stealing from the hospital." She waited with baited breath for a response.

"How do you know that?" Lee demanded. It wasn't a nasty response and there was no aggression. The man looked scared and lost.

"That's not important," Molly took confidence from her advantage, "At the end of your shift you are going to phone this number and tell the person on the end of the line that you are with a Mrs Hudson and she's been shot."

"I can't do that," Lee began to protest on ethical grounds.

Molly had to agree with him. It was morally wrong but she was giving Sherlock her unconditional help. Morals could be thrown out of the window when the consultant detective thought he was going to die. "You will do it or I will report you."

"No you can't, please," he grabbed onto her arm in desperation.

Molly shook him off, "Here's the number. Make the call or get reported. The choice is yours. A-and get some help, enough good people die." She turned on her heel and walked from the emergency department heading home for a few hours of sleep.

John awoke to the sound of his phone ringing, he groaned. It cut through his uncomfortable slumber. He didn't look at the caller id as he picked the phone up with unfocussed eyes, "Yeah, who's speaking? What?" There was a pause, "Oh my god," John was on his feet in seconds, "Right, yes, I'm coming."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked taking note of the alarm on John's face.

"It's Mrs Hudson, she's been shot."

"What? How?" Sherlock asked without a change in his demeanour.

John was halfway to the door, "Probably one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus, Jesus Sherlock she's dying, let's go, Harriet?" John struggled to believe that Mrs Hudson could die as he looked for his other friend. Mrs Hudson couldn't die she was the bricks and mortar of Baker Street.

"Went home when you were sleeping. You go, I'm busy," Sherlock didn't look at John as he visited his mind palace.

"Busy?" John turned back to give him what for.

"Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to- doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her and Harriet? How do you know she is safe?"

Sherlock shrugged, "She's my landlady and Miss Thornton is really not my concern right now."

"She's dying. You machine, sod this, sod this you stay here."

"Alone is what I have, alone protects me."

"No, friends protect people," John left slamming the door behind him as he dialled Harriet's number.

_Don't answer your phone-SH_

Harriet looked at the message. Who else apart from Sherlock or John would ring her this time of night?

_Not even if it's John- SH_

_Why?- HT_

_Not safe- SH_

Harriet sat in the quiet mess of 221B. She sipped on her coffee, fruit tea just didn't cut when she needed to stay awake, and watched the news for signs of Moriarty. Breakfast TV started as Harriet sipped her second cup of coffee. She had to turn the TV up over the noise of the workman fixing Sherlock's latest damage in the hall.

Sherlock sat in the silence of the lab. It was a waiting game as he was left to his thoughts. This was it. Moriarty could win this game. Sherlock had taken precautions with the help of Molly who would be returning the lab soon. No sooner had John stormed out when his text alert sounded.

_I'm waiting… JM_

* * *

><p><strong>Alright so we all know what happens next, gaaah! I rewrote the bit with Harriet and Sherlock so many times that I got fed up with it so I included Molly to take a break from it and let's face it Molly was pretty vital and she's fun to write. Thanks to everyone who is reading and what not. <strong>_  
><em>

**UndercoverCaptain- Don't worry the whole Harriet and John thing isn't going to be a permanent thing if it happens at all.**

**Way Worse Than Scottish- Hmmm typos, I should have spotted those but I've had a cold (excuses, excuses) and didn't proof read as much. You're right Harriet and John do make a good team and Sherlock knows it :) **

**Gwilwillith- Glad you liked the recent chapters. **


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

'_**Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall'**__**  
><strong>_**Confucius**

Grabbing his coat Sherlock headed for the roof pocketing the rubber ball in the same pocket Molly placed the syringe. It was now mid-morning outside. He walked out onto the roof to the tinny sound of The Bee Gees 'Staying Alive' playing through Jim Moriarty's phone. "Well here we are at last," he greeted Sherlock as he sat on the ledge at the edge of the building. Sherlock walked closer. "You and me Sherlock, our problem the final problem. Staying alive," Moriarty made no secret of his disgust, "It's so boring, isn't it?" The phone was shut off, "It's just staying. All my life I've been searching for distractions and you were the best distraction and now I don't even have you because I've beaten you."

Sherlock walked slowly as he paced listening to every word from Moriarty's mouth. Beaten him, he hadn't beaten him not yet at least and that was something Sherlock would take full advantage of while he could.

"And you know what. In the end it was easy." Sherlock stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. "It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with you ordinary people and it turns you're ordinary just like all of them." Moriarty rubbed his palm down across his face as his demeanour changed completely, "Oh well," his voice had a sing-song to it before returning to seriousness, "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get ya?"

Moriarty circled around Sherlock, "Richard Brook." Until now the consultant detective had maintained his silence as he took in the situation and their surroundings.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."

"Of course," Sherlock answered.

"Atta boy," Moriarty appeared to be impressed.

"Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made my name," Sherlock proved that he got the joke. He'd figured it out the first time he heard the name used in conjunction with Moriarty.

"Just trying to have some fun," Moriarty spoke in an American accent. Sherlock was aware of Moriarty's presence behind him. He tapped out the computer code onto the back of his hand, "Oh good. You got that too. You had me worried sending your girlfriend to look for it."

"Beats like digits," Sherlock elaborated ignoring Moriarty's jibe over Harriet, "every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Binary code that's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me, hidden inside my head," Harriet was never going to find the code in the flat, "A few simple lines of computer code that could break into any system."

"Told all my clients. Last one to Sherlock is a sissy," Moriarty was goading him.

"Yes but now that it's up here, "Sherlock tapped the side of his head, "I can use it to alter all the records." There was a pause as Sherlock chose his words, "I can _kill_ Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." It could be done and Moriarty could be stopped as he'd promised Harriet time and time again, just as he'd promised himself upon seeing John strapped into the bomb back when they met Moriarty for the first time. There could finally be an end to the game that had gone too far.

Moriarty groaned, "No no no no this is too easy," he turned away covering his face. "There is no key, doofas! Those digits are meaningless, utterly meaningless. You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are going to crash the world around our ears. I'm disappointed, disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

"But the rhythm?"

"Partita number one, thank you Johann Sebastian Bach," Moriarty announced.

"Then how did you-"

"How did I break into the tower, to the break, the prison? Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it, that's your weakness," he pointed at Sherlock. "You always want everything to be clever now shall we finish the game? One final act, glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it," Moriarty commended.

"Do it? Do what?" Sherlock was speaking to himself as his mind searched through every little detail he had involving Moriarty until it hit him desperate for what he suspected not to be the case. "Yes, of course. Suicide."

"Genius detective proved to be a fraud; I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers, fairy tales, and pretty grim ones too," Moriarty stood behind Sherlock as he peered over the edge of the building.

Harriet had to occupy herself to keep her mind from straying towards what Sherlock was doing. Breakfast TV was no use it blared away in the background as she cleaned up the mess she made looking for the code. Hopefully he'd figured out how to use the computer code to bring back Moriarty so she could stop worrying. She was tired but wouldn't go to bed until Sherlock and John got home bringing with them good news that they'd bought Moriarty back to life and as she dared to hope stopped him one way or another.

Her phone rang twice in the space of minutes following Sherlock's texts. Both times it was John. The second time she contemplated answering it. It might be important. "Hoo-hoo,"" Mrs Hudson knocked on the open door, "Sherlock and John still caught up in that mix-up with the police?"

"Oh, errrrrm, yeah," Harriet replied absently as she rejected the call. She felt guilty for doing so but she had to trust Sherlock. Harriet prayed that John was okay. He had become her closest friend since she made the permanent move to Baker Street.

"Not to worry dear. I'm sure they will sort it out. Here, I bought you a coffee," Mrs Hudson placed the steaming mug next to the one Harriet had long since forgotten.

Harriet smiled glad that Mrs Hudson didn't believe that Sherlock kidnapped those children, "Thank you. You didn't have to."

"Nonsense, I made one for that foreign chap who's fixing Sherlock's mess in the hall," Mrs Hudson fussed some more before returning downstairs. Harriet left the door open so she could listen to the comings and goings of Baker Street. "Oh god John you made me jump," Harriet's ears perked up as she heard Mrs Hudson's voice over the sound of the drill. She nearly knocked her coffee over in her haste to get downstairs to greet John and Sherlock. Harriet got caught behind the handyman as John fled from the building. She couldn't see the familiar sight of a dark mop of curls and swish of a coat.

"Where's he going?" Harriet demanded of the landlady, "Was Sherlock with him?"

"I don't know. He just took off," Mrs Hudson's reply fell on deaf ears as Harriet raced out into the street. Mrs Hudson was left wondering what on earth was going on.

"John?" the ex-army doctor didn't hear her, "John!" she grabbed his arm as he hailed a taxi. "What's going on? What's changed? Where's Sherlock?" Harriet couldn't get her questions out quick enough as she worried. John snatched his arm back and dashed across the street with Harriet hot on his heels. "For god's sake just stop for a second!" she shouted.

John ignored her and thieved a taxi claiming he was the police. His friend was in trouble and he had to help. Harriet scrambled in after him after a hasty apology to the irked stranger they stole the taxi from, "It's Sherlock," John offered up as he tried to sort through his thoughts. If the taxi was quick enough he could still catch Sherlock at Bart's he couldn't have gone far. John had to tell himself this over and over again for where Moriarty was concerned no one was safe. The consultant criminal had proved that on more times than John cared to count. _'Alone protects me'_ it made sense to John now. Sherlock was in trouble.

"He won't do something stupid, he's Sherlock," Harriet's self-reassurance cut through John's panic.

"It's Moriarty," John answered her. He wasn't going to sugar coat it. "He thinks he can do this alone, that I can't be of any use. I received a call from a paramedic claiming Mrs Hudson had been shot."

"But she hasn't," Harriet placed her hand on a tormented John's knee. She tapped her hand several times, "so come on cheer up."

"It was Sherlock. It had to have been. He wouldn't come when I thought she was dying he just sat there. I should have known."

"We're only human, John. Mrs Hudson is okay and we can give Sherlock what for when we get home. He was desperate to get rid of me earlier he was a bit of an arse," Harriet comforted.

John smiled despite the gravity of the situation, "Just a bit?"

Sherlock looked down at the footpath where people were beginning their day scurrying about like ants. All was not lost as the consultant detective addressed Moriarty perilously close to the edge of the building, "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."

Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Oh just kill yourself it's a lot less effort. Go on." Sherlock turned away from him letting his frustration show, "For me. Pleeeease." The annoying whine of Moriarty snapped something in Sherlock. In a fit of anger over the situation he grabbed the lapels of Moriarty's designer coat swinging him to the edge of the building. If he pushed him over it would end. He wouldn't have to kill himself. It was a way out.

"You're insane," Sherlock spoke with an icy distain.

"You're just getting that now?" Moriarty continued his light-hearted fun. Sherlock, with the man in his grasp, could think of one thing and one thing only. He pushed Moriarty further over the edge demonstrating the power he currently held over the consultant criminal. The key code hadn't been real but Richard Brook could be destroyed and Moriarty could be stopped. He could no longer torment Harriet, play with lives or challenge Sherlock in a game that had gone too far. Moriarty let out a yelp as his life hung in the balance. "Okay, let me give me you a little extra incentive," Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, "your friends will die if you don't."

Every bone in Sherlock's body froze. He recognised the emotion occupying every fibre within him. Fear. "Harriet," he spoke aloud. Moriarty hadn't taken enough from her yet and was out for more. The weight of the spiders words sat heavy in Sherlock's mind, 'burn the heart' Moriarty was making a damn good job of that.

Moriarty grinned like a Cheshire cat, "Have a heart Sherlock. She's suffered enough," he laughed manically, "No I won't kill her, try again."

"Why?" Sherlock thrust Moriarty further over the edge again in pursuit of an answer.

The grin on Moriarty's face faded away as he spoke, "Your death will be the end of her. Why make her suffering short lived? Now try again."

"John," Sherlock thought of his best friend moving on from the ill feeling he got from Moriarty's dismissal of Harriet. It had been the right thing to do keeping John away. He would be protected and he would protect Harriet if there was absolutely nothing else that could be done.

"Everyone," Moriarty held his hands up.

"Mrs Hudson."

"Everyone," the manic grin was back.

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims and with any luck Harriet may get to watch one or two of those deaths. There's no stopping them now," neither Sherlock nor Moriarty broke eye contact as Moriarty made his power clear. He straightened himself up threatening Sherlock in the process, "unless my people see you jump." Moriarty smiled at this beaten opponent as his way out was trampled on. "You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me but nothings gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. You're only three friends in the world will die. The woman who stole your attention from me will lose her friends and only relative she is close to all so you can live to beat me. How do you think she will take that? Knowing you cost her everything. She will despise you," Moriarty spat, "and you're left with no one. You can't stop them Sherlock, those three bullets unless-"

"Unless I kill myself, complete your story," Sherlock replied despondently.

"You've got to admit that's sexier," Moriarty tormented him.

Sherlock was left with no other option as he listened to Moriarty, "And I die in disgrace."

"Of course that's the point of this," Moriarty clarified, "Harriet won't forgive you either way. Do we need something to sweeten the deal further? A fourth bullet. I do feel bad for leaving her out. She dies, Sherlock, or she lives. They all die or get to live another day. The decision is yours." Moriarty glanced over the side of the building, "Oh you've got an audience now. Off you pop," he cricked his neck in anticipation, "go on. Love is a much more viscous motivator, don't you think?" Moriarty spoke rhetorically as Sherlock stepped onto the ledge. _Love_, Sherlock despised the sentiment but he couldn't shun it. Not when his body displayed all the chemical responses to the phenomenon. He cared. There was no more denying that. He cared about what happened to Harriet, to John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Love was a defect found on the losing side and Sherlock was on it.

"I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers I'm certainly not gonna do it," Moriarty licked his upper lip.

Sherlock took a deep breath to steady himself. This wasn't over. He could still win it but how? Sherlock couldn't focus his thoughts as the prospect of losing everyone he was loathe to admit he cared for continued to crash over him like waves on a beach. Waves that were broken as Moriarty got in the way.

"Would you give me one moment please? One moment of privacy. Please?"

"Of course," Moriarty stepped away giving Sherlock the room he needed to think.

Sherlock glanced down as he teetered on the edge of the building. Moriarty had made his threat as clear as day. There was no way out of it except for Sherlock to jump. He could see their faces. Harriet's clearer than anyone's. John's words echoed in his mind _'friends protect people', _stepping over the edge of the building would protect them. No way out presented itself unless Moriarty called them off to do that he had to jump or would he? Sherlock regained control of himself. He needed to exploit Moriarty's weaknesses, his flaws. Just one weakness, one flaw that was all it would take. Sherlock had an 'Oh' moment clarity as if he's realised something spectacular that no one else had it was akin to a breakthrough in case. Moriarty was changeable the man had said it himself. _'Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers I'm certainly not gonna do it.'_ He'd already demonstrated the flaw switching from three bullets to four.

Sherlock's deep baritone of laughter filled the air as Moriarty walked away from the edge. The consultant criminal held the key to end the game so long as Sherlock had him. He wasn't going to call the killers off but he could. He could change his mind. It could be a code, a word or a number something that Moriarty could use to recall the order.

"What? What is it? What did I miss!?" Moriarty demanded

"You're not going to do it so the killers can be called off then there's a recall code, or a word or a number," Sherlock leapt of the wall with a taunting step as he approach the dangerous criminal mastermind. He thought of the Hangzhou numbers from the Blind Banker. This could be just the same.

Sherlock circled the man, "I don't have to die if I've got you," he all but sang with a triumphant smile.

"Oh," Moriarty frowned, "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

Sherlock continued to circle Moriarty, "Yes, so do you."

Moriarty smiled, "Sherlock, your big brother and all the kings horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes but I'm not my brother remember. I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people wouldn't do," Sherlock fixed Moriarty with a cold stare, "You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you."

"Nah, you talk big, no you're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels."

"I may be on the side of the angels but don't think for one second that _I_ am on one of them," Sherlock sneered.

"No," Sherlock watched as realisation washed over Moriarty, "No you're not. No you see you're not ordinary, you're me. You're me," he repeated. "Thank you Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty held his hand out for Sherlock to shake. "Thank you," Moriarty smiled as he nodded his head, "Bless you." Sherlock cocked his head at an angle as he tried to get a read on what Moriarty's next move would be. "As long as I'm alive you can save your friends, you've got a way out. Well good luck with that."

Sherlock barely had chance to comprehend what was going on. Moriarty, with his mouth wide, jammed a pistol into his mouth pulling the trigger. The resounding shot echoed around Sherlock as he stepped back with a cry of disbelief. Moriarty laid on the roof top a pool of blood forming around the back of his head with a vacant expression.

The consultant detective was losing control as he stood on the roof alone. Unable to be rational about the situation he ran his hands through his hair, gripping it for the briefest of moments. His breath was short and ragged. The safety of Harriet, John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade no longer hung in the balance. It was a done deal. Moriarty was done and there was no way to call of his dogs unless Sherlock ended his life. What he had arranged with Molly was a last resort and now it was his only resort.

Sherlock stepped cautiously onto the ledge of the building. He stared out at the horizon for a moment. There was nothing he could do. He watched as a taxi halted outside Bart's. It was John. Sherlock took out his phone and dialled him. Harriet stepped out of the cab causing Sherlock to take a sharp intake of air. His resolve waivered slightly at the sight of the two people whose lives he valued most.

John stepped out of the taxi and answered his ringing phone, "Hello?"

"John."

"Hey Sherlock, you okay?" John ran for the inside of Bart's as he waited for Sherlock to answer the question. 'You okay' John had said that time and time again to his friend as he landed himself in sticky situations. Sherlock would always answer, 'I'm fine.' Not this time.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

John ignored the request. Sherlock's answer was enough of a giveaway that something was very wrong, "No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask, please," Sherlock demanded of his friend. It pained him to speak to John and only see him as a miniscule figure on the ground.

"Where?"

"Stop there," John obeyed.

"John?" Harriet had followed his every move. John shrugged not having an answer.

"Okay look up. I'm on the roof top."

Harriet followed John's line of sight, "What the bloody hell is he playing at? He couldn't just come down and greet us. Sodding Sherlock Holmes," she fumed.

"Harriet," John caught her attention as she ranted this was more serious than she realised. She hadn't heard the exchange between John and Sherlock over the phone and was jumping to conclusions that although John wished were true he had a sickening feeling that they weren't.

"I-I can't come down so we'll," Sherlock stumbled over his words, "we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

Harriet was trying to grasp the situation. Why would anyone stand on the edge of a building? The view? No, it was usually to jump. Harriet couldn't believe that he would do that not with his brilliant mind. Her decision needed very little thinking about as she turned back towards the building in search of answers. She had no idea how to get to the roof but that wasn't stopping her.

"John stop her," Sherlock spoke into the phone as Harriet turned towards the building. In an instant John had grabbed hold of her wrist pulling her to a stop.

"Let go of me!" she tried to yank her arm free.

"No, sorry Harriet," John tightened his grip on the obstinate woman's wrist.

She stopped her struggling as John kept hold of her wrist, "What is he playing at? He's not?" Harriet couldn't finish her sentence as she felt a lump rise in her throat.

"An apology," Sherlock could hear both John and Harriet clearly, "it's all true."

"W-what?" John managed to choke out in disbelief. His grip on Harriet's wrist slackened. He wasn't even aware that she had disappeared from his side.

Harriet wove in and out of people as she made a bee-line for the elevators. There were two of them. They couldn't arrive at the ground floor quick enough. The information chart gave her no answers. Roof top just didn't feature on the list of floors. She jammed her thumb impatiently against the worn steel button. The wait was killing her. Harriet spotted a young woman with an id badge in her hand. She was stuffing it into an over the shoulder fabric bag. Her unfastened coat was getting in the way. Harriet used her gut instinct. She was a hospital employee. She had to be. "Excuse me. The roof. How do I get up there?" Harriet glanced at the display above the lifts. Two and five floors away. The right one would arrive first.

The woman looked panicked, "Oh!"

Molly couldn't think of answer. She couldn't let the woman up to the roof. Sherlock was up there. "I'm not going to jump," the woman informed in a hurried manner. Molly wasn't stupid. She knew exactly who she was talking to. This was Harriet. What other woman would be so desperate to get to a roof that was never used unless it was for a good reason? Sherlock was a good reason. "Never mind," the lift on the right dinged signalling its arrival. As Molly dithered over excuses not to go up the lift emptied and the woman raced forwards.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty," John didn't want to hear anymore as Sherlock elaborated on his apology.

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake," Sherlock couldn't fight the emotion any longer as he answered his friend.

"Sherlock…"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you tell Mrs Hudson and Molly in fact tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty, for my own purposes.

"Okay shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time, the first time we met you knew all about my sister," John felt like the world was closing in on him.

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could," John answered. Sherlock smiled a sad smile. His laugh was slight as he acknowledged John's unwavering loyalty.

The lift stopped on the third floor. A porter wheeled a man in a wheelchair, his hand wrapped in a bloody bandage towards the opening lift doors. Harriet glanced nervously at them; she couldn't afford to be slowed down. She pressed her finger firmly on the door closing button and apologised, "Sorry, it's an emergency." The doors began to close leaving her with the view of a disgruntled man holding up his bloodied hand. Harriet felt bad but couldn't dwell on it.

Sherlock let a stray tear escape as he sniffed slightly. He couldn't give John what he wanted to hear. His smile faded, "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick. "

"No, alright stop it now," John spoke as if he were dealing with a child.

"No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move," it was for John's own safety. Sherlock didn't need to be intelligent to know that someone somewhere would be watching John. If he showed any inclination towards stopping Sherlock he'd be shot. Sherlock couldn't watch that happen, not to his friend. "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" John hoped against hope that it was going to be something like, 'go and fetch such and such' or something anything.

Harriet bumped into a cleaner as she left the lift without looking where she was going, "Oh sorry," she muttered out of habit. She stepped forwards and paused. "Actually, could you help me? I'm with a photography agency. We're working on a project on London skylines," it was an out and out lie. "We're using the roof but I'm late they've gone up without me can you tell me how to get up there?"

"Don't you see? This is what I need to do. I'm a fake. A fraud. If I jump…" Sherlock could see John down on the ground out of the corner of his eye. He was shifting from one foot to the other trying to decide whether to obey Sherlock's request and stay where he was or join Harriet. Sherlock lifted the phone back to his ear and repeated his request, "John. Stay where you are."

Harriet slammed open the metal door letting it bag shut behind her. Sherlock didn't turn around, he knew who it was. He'd been waiting for her since she slipped from John's grip. "Sherlock Holmes! Give me a good reason why you are doing whatever… it…is..." she lost her words as her gaze fell from Sherlock's back to the body on the floor. Moriarty. Dead? Harriet leaned closer her feet were refusing to move. The man that had taken everything, almost everything, was lying on the roof. Dead. "Sher-?" She had clear the hoarseness from her throat as she was overwhelmed, "Sherlock?

"This phone call it's ummm, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note," Harriet stared with wide eyes at Sherlock the tone in his voice was scaring her. Her gaze drifted back to Sherlock from the body on the floor.

John pulled the phone away from his ear shaking his head. What could he say to make it stop? "Leave a note when?" he asked.

"Take care of her and just-"

"Alright, alright," John held up his free hand as he saw Sherlock shift uncomfortably.

"Just don't, don't move," Sherlock managed to choke out. Words escaped John as he stood motionless staring at Sherlock. He turned around facing away from the roof. His coat flapping in the breeze and phone dropped to his side. John watched with baited breath. It was the only thing he could do. After a moment Sherlock stepped down off the roof. John let out a shaky breath in relief. His friend wasn't going to jump of course he wasn't. He was making things complicated and clever. It was what he did. He was a show off. It was probably all an act. John didn't end the call. He left that ball in Sherlock's court. The line was still open. John listened to what was being said. It was Harriet's voice that he could hear.

"Have you hit your head?" Harriet demanded as Sherlock turned around. She stepped around Moriarty's body wanting answers.

"Stay there!" Harriet stopped in her tracks as he shouted at her. He'd never shouted at her like that before.

She stood with wide eyes staring at the consultant detective; the only sound was the ripple of his coat in the breeze. "That's Moriarty," Harriet pointed out the obvious. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement. "I want to help," Harriet voiced the first thought she had. If Moriarty was dead there had to be another reason why Sherlock was on the roof.

Sherlock's reply was barely a whisper as he stepped down, "Listen to me Miss Thornton, Harriet. Everything in the papers is true. Moriarty was my own creation. I'm a fake. A fraud. I don't deserve your help."

"We've been through this already," Harriet kept her voice strong as she hoped to get through to him, "this isn't funny anymore."

"It wasn't funny to start with, "had it been a normal conversation Harriet would have told him not to be clever but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Her nerves were frayed. "I'm a fake," he repeated a little clearer, "this is the way it has to be."

"Will you stop and listen to yourself for a moment? There are other ways to deal with this. We can leave the country together, escape the press. I don't care if it was real or fake, Sherlock."

"Why? Why doesn't it matter to you?" Sherlock inquired.

"Because I know it isn't true and-" Harriet was going for broke.

"You love me?" Harriet had to gasp slightly as he interrupted; they'd never mentioned that word before not in conversation to each other. It had come close the night that Cash had shown them a taste of things to come. "I-I find myself not opposed to the ridiculous notion," Sherlock stopped himself he owed her more than that, "I am in love with you."

"Don't," Harriet choked back a sob, "please don't. I know you don't mean it so don't," she covered her mouth and tried to gather her wits, "so don't say it in attempt to make what you were about to do okay."

"I am being sincere," John felt like an intruder on the exchange. Sherlock had kept him on the line. John ended the call. He wanted to hang up he really should have done it sooner but what if Sherlock really was going to jump? What if something John said could have stopped it?

Harriet's manic fear bubbled into a laugh. Sherlock frowned. "This, this is just," Harriet wiped away a lone tear and smiled, "You stand on a roof intending to jump and tell me you are not opposed to being in love with me with Moriarty's body just lying there."

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

"No, no it's good. It's you," she smiled. Sherlock didn't snap at Harriet to stay put as she stepped closer. He felt her cool hands on his cheeks. His eyes closed as the familiar warmth of her delicate lips.

"No," Sherlock pushed her away it pained him to see her stumble slightly at his hands. He hadn't meant to use that much force as he struggled for control against the betrayal of his body. Sherlock turned back towards the edge of the roof. He had a job to. The snipers were still a threat and Moriarty's web needed unravelling.

"Sherlock don't," Harriet tugged on his coat, "please." She had gone past desperation.

Sherlock stood still. He owed her more. Her last memory of him should be something more, "Harriet, Miss Thornton," he smiled in sad fondness. She didn't see him slip his phone into his pocket and take out of the objects inside. "John will need you."

"John needs you and I need you so come on," Harriet held out her hand to lead him off the roof. If it had been anyone else Sherlock would have claimed it to have been too easy. He took her hand giving her the false hope that he wasn't going to jump. With graceful ease Sherlock slipped the tip of the syringe into her neck. Her eyes widened with the sharp pain, "Wha-" Harriet lost all coherent thought as she battled with her eyes to stay open. Her muscles turned to jelly as her legs collapsed beneath her but Sherlock was there. He caught her. She mumbled incoherent protests as she fell victim to defeat.

"Forgive me," were the consultant detective's last words to slip through her consciousness.

The syringe had been a last resort should someone, John or Harriet, interfere. She would hate him for what he was about to do but it was for the past she wouldn't have to see him jump. Harriet wouldn't have to see his body and the blood. Sherlock laid her down gently on the roof ensuring her coat was fastened to keep her warm. He checked her breathing it was fine and there didn't look to be any signs of a reaction to the mild sedative now flooding her system. She would come round and be fine physically. Sherlock stood up after placing a kiss on her cheek. It was what he did instead of a goodbye before leaving Baker Street.

Sherlock took out his phone and called John again. He didn't want to speak to him but he needed a final goodbye, "John. Harriet is on the roof." John had figured that out for himself.

"Everything good?" John asked as he looked up. He couldn't see Sherlock again which he took as a good sign. "Want me to come up?"

"No. I mean it John. Stay there," Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge. "This is my note. Take care of her," Sherlock's voice was strained, "of Harriet, please."

"No Sherlock," John shook his head, "I won't need to. That's your job."

"Goodbye John," Sherlock tossed the phone to the roof top, it clattered. He cast a sideways look at Harriet's limp form. It was for her and John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He spread his arms and with all the grace of a swan he dived over the edge of the building.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

><p><strong>Well that wasn't fun. Sorry it's late dress rehearsals, performance and work took priority and lets be honest who wouldn't want to put off writing the roof scene. I wrote the chapter two or three times until I was happy with it. I originally had Harriet speaking to Sherlock on the phone but it wasn't working. Anyways, thanks to everyone for reading! <strong>

**Li- Thanks for all the lovely reviews.**

**Gwilwillith- Cheers! I had a tough time writing it, even tougher time for this one.**

**Way Worse Than Scottish- As always thank you for the fabulous review! I'm sure Lee will make another appearance for Molly :p There needs to be some happiness somewhere after this. Harriet's threat about slapping Sherlock too was a remnant of another version of the scene that I worked in and after reading it again I definitely see what you mean about it being unnecessary never mind it's in there now. **


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 43**

'_**A hero is born among a hundred, a wise man is found among a thousand, but an accomplished one might not be found even among a hundred thousand men'**__**  
><strong>_**Plato**

John Watson was many things: doctor, soldier and friend to, in his opinion, one of the greatest people to ever live but right now he was none of those things. He'd been useless as a Doctor, he'd been useless as a soldier and as for being a friend John didn't want to think about that because one of the greatest people to ever live was dead.

"John go home. There's nothing else you can do," Molly hated seeing John in such a state she longed to tell him the truth but couldn't. She couldn't betray a friend.

"No, no I need to stay with him, to…" John didn't know what he was going to do. Sherlock had been whisked into the emergency department but it was too little too late. John looked at his friends body covered only in a white sheet. Molly placed a hand on his upper arm; she'd arrived to take the body. Usual it was the job of a hospital porter but this was Sherlock it wasn't right for strangers to be dealing with him or that's what she'd told Mike.

"He," Molly stopped herself, "They wanted someone else to do it," John looked panicked, "but I-I'm going to do it." They both knew what 'it' was.

"Just, just look after him," John's voice broke as he instructed Molly. She nodded wordlessly and let her hand slip from his arm.

Mrs Hudson couldn't believe what she was seeing. She sat down to watch the lunchtime news with a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. What she saw was beyond comprehendible. The headline stood out at the bottom of the screen: **Fraud detective commits suicide**. How could Sherlock of all people do that? Maybe it was a trick, an illusion she thought as they showed the unmistakable image of Sherlock wearing the deerstalker. Some clever ploy to catch a criminal, Mrs Hudson mused. Abandoning her lunch she phoned John. No answer. She phoned Sherlock. No answer but that was nothing unusual Sherlock 'preferred to text'. If Mrs Hudson could text she would but she didn't know how so she phoned Harriet instead. No answer. She was beginning to panic when there was a ring at the door. This must be them she reasoned. "Forgotten your keys," she swung the door open, "Mycroft," she spoke his name in mild surprise. "Everybody is out at the moment but go on up. Have you seen what your brother is doing? All to catch some criminal. Honestly."

Mycroft declined her offer, "I am aware of my brother's actions and I'm afraid you have come to the wrong conclusions."

John left the morgue. His mind was elsewhere as his feet took him to the main entrance. Already press were gathered outside. He could see the vans and the equipment standing out above the mass of heads. None of it registered as his feet refused to move anymore. The image of Sherlock's lifeless body and the blood, there had been so much of it, filled his vision. He hadn't been able to help his friend. "John," someone touched his arm bringing him out of his trance. A lot of people had been doing that out of sympathy most of them medical staff and one a member of the metropolitan police. Sherlock would scoff at such a sentiment.

"Mrs Hudson," he acknowledged quietly not really seeing her stood next to him.

"Come on," their landlady sniffed into a tissue, "Let's go find Harriet. Mycroft told me where she is." John couldn't care less for Mycroft after what he'd done to his brother. This was all Mycroft's fault yet the man in question was remaining out of sight. John had forgotten about Harriet up until Mrs Hudson arrived reviving him slightly from his despair. "She was on the roof," John's voice broke as again he saw Sherlock spread his arms and gracefully fall over the edge.

Mrs Hudson put an arm around him, "Sherlock gave her something she didn't see him." There was very little Mrs Hudson could do or say to fix everything for John no words or actions could bring back Sherlock.

"But it was alright for me to? It was alright for him to do it in the first place!" John stopped in his tracks his raised voice causing Mrs Hudson to flinch in surprise. "Sorry," John shoved his anger away, "is she alright?"

"I'm not staying here!" Harriet barged into the corridor John and Mrs Hudson were walking down. A nurse followed her from the room as Harriet slipped into her coat. She'd awoken in a private room of St. Bart's alone and momentarily disorientated as she tried to piece together what had happened. Harriet was fully clothes as she lay under the blankets. A nurse flitted into the room as Harriet was finally took note of her weak muscles and dull headache. It took several attempts for her dry throat to make any sound. The nurse fussed about dehydration as Harriet's foggy mind cleared. She had to find Sherlock.

"Please, get back into the bed until the sedative has completely worn off," the nurse requested. Her request fell on deaf ears. Harriet had already left the room wanting to find Sherlock and John. Her priority was to check that Sherlock was okay shortly followed by giving him a stern talking to. A small part of Harriet was whispering to her 'what if Sherlock isn't okay?' this small part went ignored. He wouldn't have jumped, he couldn't have.

"Harriet," John's voice told Harriet everything she needed to know as she saw him with Mrs Hudson in the corridor. Going to find Sherlock was futile that niggling little fear was confirmed. She shook her head in denial as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Harriet was numb as Mrs Hudson swept her into a hug.

Harriet wasn't allowed to leave until she'd been checked over by a doctor. She sat in dazed silence as the doctor examined her for any lasting side effects of whatever Sherlock had given her. John was equally as despondent as he stood out in the hallway with Mrs Hudson sniffling into a tissue next to him as they waited.

Greg Lestrade sighed as he set his keys down on the sideboard by the front door. It had been a very long trying day and it wasn't over yet. He still had to explain to his wife why he was suspended, luckily she had gone to work early that morning leaving him to sit and stew in the quiet house and decide the best way to broach the subject with her. Since Sherlock and John did a runner whilst under arrest Greg had seen neither hind nor hair of the duo. Greg sat back against the sofa and closed his eyes. It was silent just what he needed after a stressful day dealing with Sherlock. He could have the day to himself and deal with the fallout tomorrow. Mycroft would swoop in and save the day. Sherlock and John would be fine, he wouldn't be suspended and under investigation things could return to normal. Well, as normal as things got.

A sharp ring startled Greg from his peaceful slumber as he dozed in front of a talk show, "Lestrade," he answered sleepily having fumbled for his phone sitting on the oak coffee table.

"Sir, you need to know what the freak has done," it was Donavan.

Lestrade groaned and rubbed his temples, "go on," he couldn't just have one day, one day of peace. He listened to what Donavan had to say but couldn't quite believe what he was hearing but then again the last twenty four hours had been fairly unbelievable.

"Sir?" Greg was unaware that he'd been silent for so long.

"Thank you," he hung up and stared at the wall. Sherlock was dead. The world's only consultant detective was dead and it was his fault. If Lestrade had ignored Donavan and Anderson and gone with his gut then things would be different. When Greg's wife got home from work later that day she found him sat on the settee where he'd sat all day with his head in his hands.

Mycroft wasn't the British government for nothing he knew well enough to stay away from John and Harriet. Giving Moriarty the information on Sherlock had finally come to a head. "Miss Hooper, John Watson and Harriet Thornton will both want to see his body. I would suggest that you are prepared," Mycroft left the morgue without a goodbye. He had been making arrangements whilst dealing with a crisis in Morocco. The crisis now required his attention again.

Harriet refused to accept what she was told until she saw Sherlock with her own eyes. "No, I want to see him," Harriet wasn't moving on the matter as she marched ahead to the morgue. Mrs Hudson was trying to deter her. John followed in silence hoping for one more glimpse of his friend. He would walk into the morgue to find Sherlock fastening his scarf around his neck as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It would be just another case finished with. The consultant detective would then comment on John's stupidity with a smug look of self-importance.

A dry sob burst from Harriet as she took three tentative steps towards Sherlock. They'd cleaned him up but the blood still stained his clothes. Molly busied herself on the other side of the morgue giving them some privacy. She was just getting set up when Mike stopped her. Molly didn't have the heart to turn away the grieving woman and her friend. Mrs Hudson waited outside unable to bring herself to see the lifeless body.

It wasn't right seeing Sherlock motionless. He was always moving, always chasing a case or an experiment but not now. Harriet ran her hands through his thick locks of hair ignoring the matted hair from the blood. John stood next to her staring at his friends paler than usual face.

Mycroft observed Harriet through the window pane in the door. Caring wasn't an advantage. She'd cared about his younger brother and now she was paying the price. As for his brother he had cared about her and now he too was paying the price. Mycroft sighed and stepped away from the window, he pushed open the door. Harriet couldn't look away from Sherlock. "Miss Thornton," Mycroft addressed the grieving young woman.

"This is your fault," her voice was quiet and hoarse from the sobs that had wracked her body earlier. "You could have done something but you didn't!"

"My brother made his own choices," Mycroft answered her as he leant on his umbrella. Harriet didn't want to hear anymore she pushed past Mycroft and out into the corridor where Mrs Hudson was waiting knowing that it would be last time she would see the man she loved.

John didn't look away from Sherlock's lifeless form as he finally acknowledged Mycroft's presence, "A choice he wouldn't have to make if it wasn't for you."

"John, I'm…"

"Sorry? Yes thanks Mycroft that makes everything okay," John was angry at the elder Holmes. Mycroft left the morgue with one last look at his brother. Discussing Moriarty and his brother's death could wait until tomorrow.

As Mycroft left the morgue he passed Harriet and Mrs Hudson, "Your mother is no longer required to be in witness protection. She will arrive tomorrow. You need no longer be concerned with Moriarty."

"And everything returns to normal?" Harriet wiped at her eyes furiously. Mycroft walked away without answering. His answer would not make amends.

John let out a shaky breath that he'd been holding as soon as he heard the door close. He'd seen people die before in Afghanistan and fought desperately to save them but this was different. Sherlock made him stand there completely useless. John had listened to him and allowed him to die. He shouldn't have. "Jesus, Sherlock," John ran his hand threw his hair, "can't you just open your eyes, come on. We can go upstairs and you can charm Molly into some thumbs or maybe a few eye balls we haven't had many of those in the flat recently." John paused for a moment and waited. There was nothing so he tried again, "Harriet will give you what for." Still nothing. "Think of Mrs Hudson," nothing.

"John?" Molly silently entered the morgue. John made no inclination that he'd heard her, "I need to…" Molly looked down at the floor and blinked back tears. It hurt to see what Sherlock was putting the army doctor through. "He's not going to come back, he's dead." This got John's attention.

"How can you do it Molly?" John asked in accusation. Molly panicked, did he know that she'd played a part. "How can you pretend as if he isn't the one lying there? How can you treat him like any other person?"

"He isn't any other person," Molly found herself crying despite knowing the truth, "he wouldn't want anybody else to be the one to carry out the post mortem."

John finally looked at Molly properly, "He trusted you Molly, thank you."

That night neither John nor Harriet wanted to stay upstairs in 221B. Harriet had taken the sofa and John had the airbed on the floor in Mrs Hudson's tiny flat. "You were good for him, both of you," Mrs Hudson set down a hot chocolate on the coffee table before turning in for bed.

"Not good enough in the end," John mumbled. Mrs Hudson sat up a while longer before turning in for the night. There was nothing she could do to being back the man she treated like a son. She would give anything to hear the ruckus he made in the middle of the night or to open her fridge to some awful smelling experiment or even see him pinching food from her fridge again. Mrs Hudson perched on the edge of her bed and dabbed at her eyes.

A morbid silence took over Baker Street. The clock in the corner punctuated every second. "John," Harriet broke the silence, "I told him I slapped Moriarty and I could slap him too, I didn't mean it. He just, he just, he did, no, oh," Harriet fought against the flood gate of tears. She'd not yet exhausted them in her grief, she never finished what she was going to say. Since they arrived back Harriet had been going over and over the conversations she'd had with Sherlock trying to find a reason for him to end his life so she could understand. They both knew it was Moriarty but that didn't stop the blame from sinking in. The accusations painted him a fraud and a coward for taking the easy way out but that wasn't him. Maybe, just maybe there was something they could have done or said to stop Sherlock from taking his life.

John was silent for a while, "I called him a machine. When- oh god," John found he could no longer continue. He turned over on the uncomfortable air bed and faced the wall.

Harriet stared up at the ceiling. Above her was Sherlock's bedroom. It should be the first night in a long time that she could sleep peacefully wrapped in the cotton sheets knowing that Moriarty was no longer an issue. She should be lying in that bed in the room above curled up against the enigmatic consultant detective listening to him explaining his current experiments or grumbling about being bored. Life would have moved on as easy as that.

John was equally lost to his own thoughts of Sherlock. Had they stopped Moriarty things would have returned to Baker Street normal. Sherlock would step over the coffee table, wearing his dressing gown to retrieve something or other to keep the boredom at bay. The smiley face on the wall would more than likely take another hit. John shut his eyes as he clung to the image in his mind. They'd end the evening watching crap TV as if they hadn't been out chasing after criminal masterminds all day. Sherlock would argue with it and John, despite telling him to shut up, would enjoy listening to his friend make deductions.

It was a sleepless night for all involved. The following day was harder still. Harriet was buttoning up her coat when John walked up the stairs into the flat, he'd been helping Mrs Hudson to put away the bedding and prolonging his return to the familiar place. Harriet's mother had called to say she was on the train leaving Harriet to wait. It was torturous. She couldn't stay in Baker Street waiting.

Harriet slipped her feet into her shoes, "John he should be here making a mess in the kitchen, complaining of boredom or flouncing around in his dressing gown. But he's just…"

"Gone," John finished for her. Since he finally faced up to climbing the seventeen stairs he'd sat in his chair staring at Sherlock's empty one.

"Yeah," she acknowledged, "I need to…I can't…" John watched as she shut her eyes in frustration.

"You see him everywhere?" John saw him too. He was seeing him right now sat him his chair with his fingertips pressed together.

Harriet snapped her eyes to John ready to deny that she wasn't crazy but one look at the man washed those thoughts away. He was suffering too. "Do you want to come with me? For a walk?"

John looked at Sherlock's empty chair one more time, "I'll get my jacket."

Harriet's mother arrived and between her and Mrs Hudson there was far too much fuss at Baker Street. John and Harriet tried to spend as much time as they could away from Baker Street as the funeral approached. They would walk for hours through Regent Park or go for lunch despite their lack of appetites. Neither said much to the other it was just enough to know that the others presence was there as they tried to avoid the chasm left behind by Sherlock.

John heard Harriet crying as she hid away in Sherlock's room the night before the funeral. For the last week she'd kept up the façade of being fine, John had seen her do it time and time again with Moriarty but this time it was different. He knocked on Sherlock's door, he hadn't been in their since before the man fell. It was easier to say he fell rather than jumped. Harriet didn't answer so John opened the door. Her case lay open and empty between the door and the bed. Harriet would be returning with her mother as soon as the funeral was over. John couldn't blame her, "You okay?" it was a pointless question. Harriet nodded afraid that if she spoke she would breakdown again. Instead of looking at John she looked at the empty case from her seat on the bed. John sat next to her and put his arms around her much for his own comfort as hers.

The funeral was a small one at a church once part of the Holmes family estate, no expense had been spared. Sherlock's mother was there along with Mycroft accompanied by Anthea who had set aside her phone for the short amount of time. Lestrade was the only one from Scotland Yard to attend. Harriet sat with John and Mrs Hudson. A woman sat behind them who John and Mrs Hudson were familiar with. She sat next to Greg. Harriet learnt that this was Molly Hooper. There were a few faces that none of the Baker Street attendees recognised.

As the funeral party departed the church the sun was shining slightly warming the chilly air. Harriet was glad it wasn't raining, it wouldn't have been right. A silly part of Harriet liked to believe that the fine weather was the world's way of agreeing with her and thanking the consultant detective for his work but of course she was being ridiculous. Harriet held both John and Mrs Hudson's hands as they stood by the graveside. They were burying him as a fraud but he wasn't. He had been the world's greatest and only consultant detective.

* * *

><p><strong>First things first, so so sorry for the long wait life took priority for a while and then I went to London for the tennis (I walked down Baker Street :D). Secondly, thank you to everyone who has been reading and to Gwilwillith, evon and Poiuy134 for their reviews on the last chapter, glad you liked it! Aaaand finally there'll be one more chapter after this, I should have it finished by the end of the week. I want to do a sequel but have no idea in which direction to take it so would love to hear some ideas review or pm them :)<strong>


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

'_**Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them'**__**  
><strong>_**George Eliot**

Greg Lestrade flicked through the newspaper. It had been two weeks since Sherlock's death and they were still reporting gossip. It was his first day back from his suspension. The investigation had been fast-tracked and tampered with courtesy of Mycroft leaving Greg with desk duty until further notice. Looking on the bright side at least he still had a job.

"This wasn't Sherlock," Greg closed the newspaper out of frustration startling his wife. She sighed having heard the same thing over and over again at breakfast. "He was a good man," Greg elaborated.

"I made you lunch," his wife smiled not hiding the worry over her husband's guilt for his part in the whole affair. It was putting yet another strain on their marriage. After everything she had put him through with the PE teacher it was only right that she was there for him for the duration.

"Thanks," he picked up the clear plastic box of sandwiches and kissed her on the cheek before leaving.

Greg's glum mood didn't improve as the day progressed. He had two weeks' worth of paper work to sort whilst Sargent Donavan was out at a crime scene. It was a lonely day for the detective inspector with many of his colleagues at Scotland Yard ignoring him completely all because of what they believed Sherlock to be. By the end of the day Greg was ready for home leaving a somewhat smaller pile of paper for tomorrow. "See you tomorrow Daniels," Greg nodded his head once as he passed Daniels in the corridor. Daniels was another detective inspector who began around the same time as Greg. The man turned away from Greg who couldn't believe what he was witnessing; Daniels had used Sherlock's assistance on several cases in the past. Greg left Scotland yard fuelled by anger and misery which his wife would bear the brunt of over an evening spent in front of the television.

Mrs Hudson hovered for the third time in a week to give 221 Baker Street some life. Her home had become an empty shell. Harriet had returned to her mother to live in County Durham where, under the witness protection scheme, Mary Thornton had established a new life for herself and as for John since Harriet left he'd stayed one more night before going to stay with his sister. Mrs Hudson hadn't needed an explanation to understand why. Without Sherlock 221 Baker Street just wasn't 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson, ignoring her dodgy hip, let herself into 221B. A layer of dust was starting to cover everything. "Oh Sherlock," she spoke to herself, "the mess you've left." Mrs Hudson wasn't referring to the state of the flat.

The lab at St. Bart's had been clean and tidy for two weeks straight. A new record. Molly relished the peace and quiet whilst she was away from home. For the last week she'd had a guest staying over, a guest that made far too much noise and left dirty towels on the bathroom floor. In her lunch break Molly had been tasked with a job by her challenging guest in the form of a text message.

**Call this number ask the person to come to your flat at 7pm.**

Molly knew who it was from and ignored the text instead concentrating on her canteen pasta salad. What right did the man currently staying at her home have to invite any Tom, Dick and Harry over?

**I liked your hair this morning.**

The second text arrived exactly a minute later. She ignored it, if it was that important he could phone the number himself. Molly could imagine him tapping his fingers on the kitchen table as he waited having used flattery to get what he'd wanted. She had cottoned on to what he was doing upon the realisation that he had a partner so that his charming comments lost their appeal. Molly relished the fact that she wasn't standing to attention for him any longer yet her kind nature kept reminding her that her guest had lost everything; she should probably call the number. "Hi," someone spoke startling her from her inner turmoil. Molly nearly dropped her fork full of food on the sticky surface of the canteen table.

"Oh," Molly recognised who it was and tried to hide her surprise, "Lee. Hello."

"Hello Molly," he smiled wide, "mind if I sit?" Molly shook her head still slightly speechless. Her phone vibrated on the table. She spared it a quick glance.

**Please. **

Molly turned the phone off as she finished her lunch with Lee. She would phone when she was back in the lab and deal with the fallout when she returned home later. Molly had to fight embarrassment when a piece of pasta fell off her fork and onto her lap she berated herself for not paying attention to Lee. "I wanted to thank you. I'm getting help for the drugs. Can I take you out for dinner as a thank you?"

Nothing could ruin Molly's good mood after arranging to meet Lee for dinner after work on Friday not even phoning the number to discover it belonged to Mycroft could spoil her positive attitude.

Mycroft Holmes was sat in his London home thumbing through a manila folder with languid interest. For a few days leading up to and following the funeral Mycroft had taken his work with him to the Holmes family estate to stay with mummy. Once again he was picking up the pieces of his brothers latest mess only this time it would be for the last time. Mummy had been beside herself with grief at the loss of her youngest son. "Your father never understood him," she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, "he saw him as a thorn in his side. I tried," mummy Holmes folded her silk handkerchief neatly, "but they were both so stubborn." Mycroft smiled warmly at this. If his brother was anything it was stubborn. He let his mother continue as he sipped at his brandy, "You've always been there to look out for him and that girl I'm glad he found someone even if she was common." Mycroft could say with total honesty that he was glad to leave the family home until the next public holiday when his presence would be demanded again.

Mycroft's phone rang from its place on the desk next to the manila folder it was the mobile number of one Molly Hooper, "Miss Hooper," he greeted coolly.

"Oh," he could hear the surprise in her voice. She didn't know who she was calling.

"You are speaking to Mycroft Holmes," he took pity on the poor woman.

There was a pause on the line, she was thinking about her words carefully. Mycroft had to admit the phone call had caught him by surprise despite this he kept his composure, "Errr I need you to," she began, he heard her mumble a no to herself before taking a deep breath and continuing with more confidence, "Will you come to my flat tonight? It's important. The address is-"

"I know the address," Mycroft cut in to cover up his own surprise. His brother had only been dead two weeks and Molly was already moving on to another Holmes to moon over. No, that wasn't right. This was something entirely different. Could it be that? No, Mycroft corrected his hopeful mind, that couldn't be it.

John's stay at his sisters had been less than agreeable. Despite Harriet Watson's persistent denial that she was off the drink John had found a half drunk bottle of vodka in the cupboard next to the washing machine and a bottle of wine sitting by the bread bin, solely 'for cooking' or so Harry claimed. Her modern flat was a far cry from 221 B it was just what an exhausted John had needed when he'd phoned his sister the day after the funeral. Harry's flat bared no resemblance to his home, the one he shared with Sherlock.

Harry looked at her elder brother, his eyes were sunken under dark circles and his chin was covered in light stubble. Kipping on her settee was doing him no favours having irritated his limp that, from the last few times Harry had seen John, had completely disappeared. "John," she addressed her brother but he didn't look at her. It pained her to see the effect the man had on him. She wasn't sure whether or not to believe what she'd seen in the papers or what John had told her. It all seemed unbelievable to her yet she couldn't doubt John. "Why don't you go and see the psychologist, the one who helped you before?"

John finally looked at her, "That won't bring him back."

"I know but do you think he would want you to wither away like this?" Harry was very close to losing it with her brother and John was more than little tempted to snap at her for not knowing what the real Sherlock Holmes would want. John was an empty shell broken and battered from two years living with that man. Harry met him once and took an immediate dislike to him when he pointed out to John that she was still drinking from the stain on her fingers from mopping up spilt red wine. She complained to her brother the first moment she could, not that he minded, apparently it was 'just Sherlock'.

It pained Mary Thornton to see her daughter suffer so much. She kept a close eye on her following the funeral. The first day Harriet didn't move from the settee from dawn till dusk. She barely spoke ten words to her mother and even they were to politely turn down the tea and biscuits her mother had prepared. That night Mary heard her daughter crying herself to sleep.

Harriet tried to understand everything but she couldn't. There were times when she felt she was sinking under the oppression of sorrow and other times when she felt guilt wash over for trying to live her life. Moriarty was confirmed dead but it was no longer important. It just didn't matter anymore. Harriet was awash with emotions as she flicked from grief to anger in seconds. Something on the television or something her mother said would flick the switch as she went from missing the man she loved to loathing him for doing what he did. In Harriet's eyes nothing was going to make life better.

Her mother's new home in County Durham as part of the witness protection programme wasn't home. Harriet longed for the two places she thought of as home. The burnt shell of a house in Gloucester that was home to all the treasured memories of her father and Baker Street complete with all its eccentricities, consultant detective included. It was he that she longed for most.

For several days Mrs Thornton continued to watch over her daughter. Everytime she asked how Harriet was feeling the answer would be a short simple confirmation that she was fine but Mrs Thornton knew her daughter all too well. It had been the same after her father's death and the break-up with her fiancé Harriet would try very hard to prove to everyone that she could cope. "Harriet dear, you don't need to try so hard. Don't rush to rid yourself of grief."

"I'm not," Harriet didn't look at her mother that would give the game away.

Mrs Thornton sighed, "You're just like your father. He was stubborn."

Harriet smiled at hearing her mother mention her father. It wasn't a big smile but it was a smile none the less, "How did you do it? When Dad died, what got you through?"

Mrs Thornton thought for a moment, "It took time. I tried to keep busy."

Mycroft rung the bell belonging to Molly's flat from the selection on the wall. He waited for her to answer, "Hello?" Mycroft looked down at his watch he was there on time and not a minute sooner.

"Miss Hooper," he replied.

Mycroft heard a clatter through the intercom system, "I've buzzed you in." The elder Holmes nodded to his driver who was to wait for him before entering the building.

Molly opened the door at the sound of footsteps on the stairs so as not to keep Mycroft waiting she had an inkling that despite what Sherlock said there were many similarities between the Holmes brothers. The elder Holmes closed the door behind him and smiled at Molly she had certainly surprised him with her request. He cast a quick glance around her cluttered flat. There were knick-knacks and ornaments littering the shelves between well-read novels and over-used textbooks. The most striking feature of all was the lack of any indication that anyone else was living or staying there as the elder Holmes dared to hope. Mycroft turned his gaze on the rest of the living room. "Hello Brother," a cold and collected voice spoke from the doorway to the kitchen behind where Mycroft was stood.

Mycroft kept his surprise under control as he turned around, "Sherlock."

Sherlock stood in the doorway with his hands deep in the pockets of his suit trousers. He stared at Mycroft. The buttons on his waistcoat were pulled tight; clearly a stay at the family home had been bad for his diet. "I'm pleased to see my death has affected you," Sherlock was referring to the few extra pounds that Mycroft had put on as opposed to the emotional fallout of death.

Mycroft sneered at his very much alive younger brother. Molly felt uncomfortable standing between the two imposing figures in her living room. She fled to the bathroom to give the brothers some privacy. "I'm glad to see you alive," Mycroft spoke after a moment, "No one else is to know I presume?"

"No," Sherlock answered.

"Moriarty is dead," Mycroft stated already knowing that his brother witnessed it, "What happened, Sherlock?"

**The Science of Deduction**

Harriet stared at the webpage on her laptop. It had been on permanently since the funeral. Hidden away from the world in her mother's new home she felt lost and alone. There was no Baker Street, no John or Mrs Hudson but more importantly there was no Sherlock. The website was the only connection she still had to the world's only consultant detective. Harriet was no longer capable of tears as she thought of the enigmatic man that had claimed her heart. Her mother's words echoed in her mind bringing Harriet to the realisation she needed a distraction. Harriet picked up her phone from the bedside table. Since the funeral it had sat there until it ran out of battery. She plugged it in and bought it up to her ear as she selected John's name from the contact list, "Harriet?" he answered.

"Hey John," she replied without her usual enthusiasm, "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she heard him answer, "and you?"

"I'm fine," there was a pause on the line as they both felt the weight of a reply they'd heard from Sherlock on many occasions. "I miss him," Harriet spoke quietly.

"Me too."

"How are we supposed to…" Harriet couldn't finish her sentence as her voice gave out on her. John was silent as he waited for Harriet over the phone, "John," she spoke after several long minutes, "Will you come and stay? For a few days?"

Harriet finished her call with John and held the phone in her hand, it felt heavy. Without consciously being aware of her decision Harriet found herself opening her texts from Sherlock.

_Don't be idiotic enough to go out for a sleeping aid tonight. SH_

_Sorry. SH_

_Mrs Hudson has found my socks- SH_

_Mrs Hudson has stolen my skull again- SH_

_John referred to you as my girlfriend- SH_

_I prefer significant other- SH_

_Am I to take it the children have eaten you alive?- SH_

_It brings out my eyes- SH_

_Don't want him to lose anymore brain cells- SH_

_Don't answer your phone-SH_

_Not even if it's John- SH_

_Not safe- SH_

The three most recent texts struck on the chords of Harriet's heart. Harriet let the phone slip from her hands as he clattered onto the painted white wooden floor. Mary Thornton heard the noise from her daughter's room and went to investigate. She found her daughter lying on the bed muffling her sobs with a pillow. Mrs Thornton didn't speak as she settled her hands on Harriet's shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position. Once there she encased her daughter in a tight hug allowing her cry out her grief.

"I want him back, mum, I want him back," Harriet sobbed into the arms of her mother.

"I know darling," her mother ran her hand up and down Harriet's back as she calmed. "I'll put the kettle on," her mother got to her feet once she was sure Harriet wasn't going to cry anymore. Harriet went to wash the tear stains from her face before joining her mother for the cure all tea and biscuits.

It didn't get any easier for those who knew Sherlock. The consultant detective had swept through their lives like a tsunami leaving devastation in his wake. It was sometime before Lestrade was able to return to being a detective inspector without any restrictions and Mrs Hudson was left alone at Baker Street missing the company of her boys. The rent for 221B was paid by Mycroft for what Mrs Hudson thought was down to that most hated of things for a Holmes, sentiment. John sought solace in Harriet's company. They would sit for hours absorbed in memories of Sherlock Holmes as long as he was never forgotten he would never truly be dead.

* * *

><p><strong>Aaaand finish, for now. There will be sequel which I'm going to work on tomorrow. I sat in traffic driving home from work last night and planned most of it out so hopefully there will be a chapter one tomorrow if I'm not to hungover from a night out with everybody from theatre. I'll put a note on here with the title so look out for it.<strong>

**Thank you to everybody who has been reading and reviewing. I never thought I would get over 150 reviews :D**

**Gwilwillith- Thank you so much for reviewing ever chapter, it has definitely kept me going!**

**marriedharrypottercast- I thought about waiting for season 3 but I'm impatient, it's taken me a few weeks but I've finally got concrete ideas for it. **

**O.O LOLz- Gaaaah I know, feels, I had to watch TRF again to do the chapter. Loved your ideas and I'm going to try and use them in the sequel.**

**Poiuy134- Thanks! **

**Indigo Scrawl- Wow! Thanks for the fantastic review it definitely made my day when I read it, glad you've enjoyed reading it. **


	46. Sequel

**Hello everybody,**

**The sequel is now up entitled _The Principle Axiom. _**

**Once again thank you to everyone for the lovely reviews and for taking the time to read.**

**JY :)**


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